Signal to Noise
by Kourion
Summary: Harry's problems are multiplying in the wake of Sirius' death. SI and noncon warnings. Mature subject matter.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**Signal to Noise

**Author**: Kourion

**Disclaimer** is this REALLY necessary? I don't own HP, yadda, yadda, yadda.

**AN** this story takes place during the fall (following OofP.) Harry is 16.

**Summary** _Hindsight is 20/20. But recognition after the fact doesn't lessen grief – in fact, it usually makes things worse._

**Warnings**: contains references to disordered eating and cutting. Also very slight references to physical and sexual abuse. If any of these subjects trigger you, then you probably should stay away. I'm also a relatively recent fan of the series (_I know, I know – have I been living under a rock?_), so I apologize for any inaccuracies. Concrit and reviews are appreciated.

---

Early September

---

I am sitting in the dark - my hand clutched around one stinging limb, when I hear the creaking of the Gryffindor boy's bathroom door. My eyes automatically half-close as a wave of light streams into the room; I prop myself up against the tiled wall and pull my robe tightly over my body. A cracked section of wall digs into my shoulder blades as I use it for support, and I wince. That part of me is already pretty badly bruised.

"Harry?"

The voice is tentative, feminine and tender. But I remain quiet for a moment, as I don't want to talk to anyone right now – even Hermione. That thought causes a surge of fresh shame.

"You really shouldn't be in here, Hermione." My voice sounds oddly haggard.

"Why? Do you really think anyone else cares if I am here? Besides it's just you and me", she is silent for a moment, and then adds, "I didn't see you at the feast and…well, I was concerned, okay?"

When I don't reply, she adds with greater insistence, "I looked for you all over. Ron told me that he saw you earlier, when you were unpacking. I was going to see if you were in the commons room, because I couldn't sleep either."

Hermione sometimes provides me with more information than needed, and occasionally she even seems to know what I am going to ask next in a conversation. She used to joke that it was her "women's intuition" made manifest, until I said something about intuition and Trewlawney in the same sentence, and ever since then she has denied having any extraordinary perceptive abilities.

I guess it comes in handy. I don't have to ask why she's here, or how she knew **I** was here, because as soon as I think of this she supplies more information: "I saw your satchel outside the restroom, Harry. Why do you boys do that?"

_Oh. Right._

"Habit, I guess", I admit.

I glance upwards out of basic respect for my friend, and then look back down, studying my hands. They look unnaturally pale in the darkness of the room, the moons of the nails starkly white, the cuticles torn from the nail beds. The bleeding highlights my fingers in little red crescents.

Hermione comes closer and rests her hands on my back, rubbing it gently for a moment before mumbling something. Her hand feels unnaturally warm and comforting, or maybe I am just unnaturally cold and lonely. Some part of me registers that she is asking me something, so I nod when I feel the moment is appropriate, and she shakes me a little.

"I think we should be off to our respective rooms now – you are barely awake", and her hand brushes the small space under my right eye, so softly, that I almost question if she has touched me at all. "Your eyes are so dark, you are obviously exhausted. So don't argue, because I'm going to drag you back to bed if it's the last thing I do."

I try not to laugh at that statement, and she flushes, annoyed with her sloppy wording.

"Oh shut up."

This causes me to laugh even more. The only reason I can get away with laughing at all is because we are such good friends. I know that she isn't really embarrassed – not truly. She smirks, amused with my immature response.

"Try not to be such a male for a second. Seriously – you are just as bad as Ron. We have potions first thing in the morning. Do you really want to be sleep deprived for that particular class? I can just see it now…you half-awake, dropping the wrong ingredient into our mixture, Snape detracting more house points than we could have even earned by that point and…"

She's rambling again as she pulls me to my feet, and doesn't mention the oddness of the entire evening. Doesn't make reference to my quietness, my seemingly obvious depression. I don't know if I like this take-charge-but-don't-comment Hermione, or if I want her to broach the subject and demand to know what I am doing sitting in the boy's washroom with the lights off at 2.30 in the morning. At this moment, I almost want to tell her. Which is evidence of my exhaustion, because I would never want to tell anyone the truth. Not ever.

---

Unbelievably, Potions class goes by without incident. I remain mute but pay attention so as to not incur Snape's wrath. To my amazement Neville doesn't cause any sort of calamity, Ron doesn't set off Malfoy, and Hermione works diligently on cutting up something called a scarab root for our team assignment while I sit passively by and only add components to the mix when I feel Snape is near.

A few times I have felt him staring at me with those beady black eyes, the git. But he seems reluctant to say anything to me, which suits me just fine. However, by the end of the first hour I'm feeling not unlike a ghost. Unseen. Invisible. I don't know if I like this feeling or not.

The next few classes pass by in a blur, which I chalk up to my tiredness. After all, I didn't get much sleep, even after dutifully returning to my dorm last night, as I promised to Hermione.

Then again, I really couldn't bring myself to eat much breakfast either. A sip of pumpkin juice and a bite of peaches and cream oatmeal, but that was it. And I only ate that much because I was feeling a little nauseous and woozy.

But by lunch hour, I'm feeling even less enticed by the prospect of eating, so I spend 10 minutes pushing green beans, roast beef and potatoes around on my massively oversized plate.

I don't know if it is my imagination, or if the school has simply outfitted the 6th and 7th years with larger plates – but everything looks so _excessive_ this year. I mean - do we really need 500 pieces of buttered toast on a table that has not more than 80 Gryffindors? There is more food here than what we would need for a week. I shudder when I think of the obvious waste.

I then notice that Hermione is staring at me rather intently, and asks if I feel ill. I just dismiss her with a wave of my hand.

"Everything tastes bitter."

"Bitter? Harry – the food is perfectly sound. You are looking a little pale though…are you **sure** you're not sick?"

I bite back my retort, as irritable as I am, and pierce a green bean with the tine of my fork, taking a nibble to show her that I'm reasonable.

_Chew, chew, swallow. _Try to look impassive. But the vegetable seems to lodge itself in my body. It's an intrusion. It seems to take up too much space, and all at once I feel defiled. I feel contaminated, antsy and it doesn't make much sense. Maybe Hermione is right. Maybe I am coming down with something.

"No, it tastes strange. I can't really explain it any better than that. It doesn't taste bitter, or, I don't know – off – to you guys?"

"Off? What, all of it tastes "off"?", Hermione qualifies, and I shrug before nodding.

Ron looks up at me in confusion, having already eaten two large chicken legs, a massive heaping of mashed potatoes and gravy and an impressive serving of pumpkin juice before finishing off another plate of baklava. I try to hide my revulsion.

"Tastes good to me," he says through bites, tearing the remaining crispy skin off the chicken breast, revealing the glistening pink flesh underneath. I feel bile, hot and salty, surge to the front of my throat and barely make my way from the Great Hall to the outside quad before I vomit in the grass.

---

I manage to avoid Hermione before she heads off to her 6th year Arithmancy class amongst a throng of Ravenclaws, and I feel my pulse decrease slightly with that knowledge. I just crave to be alone; to go back to my room and curl up with the recent book on Quidditch that Ginny gave me for my birthday.

I know that I am supposed to be meeting up with Ron for Herbology, but I cannot convince myself that the first class will even be all that important as every year it's the same deal. We just go through a yearly "welcome back" speech, and basic run-through of the syllabus. Nothing essential. I decide that the library appeals to me more at the moment and I'm almost home free before I hear the patient voice of my previous DADA instructor.

"Don't you have class now, Harry?"

Remus is looking at me with a look that is not quite bemusement, and I try to hedge before just coming clean.

"I'm not really feeling too enthusiastic for Herbology at the moment."

He nods in what I think shows understanding before adding, "It's hard to be enthusiastic on an empty stomach, isn't it?"

_Oh Merlin, not this. Did Hermione say something?_

"I guess," I respond tersely. "But I really don't think that's it – I just, I…"

_Yeah, that's a powerful argument, Potter. Ramble. Good job._

Remus digs around in his pockets before retrieving a silver foil edge of Honeyduke's chocolate… of course – his magical cure-all for everything.

"Why don't you eat some of this, and try your best to get through what is it next? Herbology? You've already gotten through Potions today haven't you? So it's all downhill now", he replies amicably, with but a certain finality, gently guiding me away from the library entrance.

I take his chocolate offering, mutter a polite thank you, and then make my way towards my next class. Before I enter the greenhouse, I dispose of the chocolate in the north wing waste bin - feeling slightly guilty as I do so. I feel like I am throwing away something more than chocolate. I feel as if I am throwing away his help, his friendship.

---

Mid-September 

---

The routine is as follows: breakfast is offered as early as 7 am to all students, first classes commence at 8.30 in the morning and last 60 minutes a piece, so total in-class time each day averages 6 hours, with short breaks between classes to change books, or if necessary, clothes.

Lunch begins at noon, and finishes by 1 pm and is followed by three afternoon classes. The last class typically finishes around 3.30 or 3.45, depending on whether students were late or the class took longer than expected to complete. From 4 to 5:30 we have our extra-curricular activities, including Quidditch practice. Dinner is offered from 6 to 7, and then the final three hours of the day are essentially, "free" (although that usually translates into homework or practice time, so the actual _true_ free time offered is far less than this, and in Hermione's case, is practically non-existent, except in those cases when we travel to Hogsmeade, or during holidays, of course).

Lights out time is supposedly 10 pm, although this is only in theory, since by the third year, most students do not follow this 'rule' and the commons room is usually bustling well until quarter to 11 with students playing Wizard chess and eating more than their fill of chocolate frogs and other sweets. At which time McGonagall sometimes makes rounds, and we carefully disperse, lest she usher us off to bed or decides to take off house points. Most Gryffindors (and I assume those from other houses as well) awaken around 6.30 am for showers or preparations for the next day.

As such, everyone lives by the same schedule. There are slight deviances in the schedules for some, such as in the case of those who play Quidditch, or those who take advanced Arithmancy, but generally speaking – we have our lives mapped out for us. Each hour of every day is filled. There are no alternative breakfast times and there are no alternative dinner times. If you miss lunch, it usually is noticed by at least a handful of your peers since we all eat communally and there are no valid excuses, save for illness, as to why a student would be absent.

When I first began my schooling at Hogwarts, the routine was very comforting. I craved it, much the same way Ron seems to crave his sugary confections, or Snape craves being an arse and picking on first year Hufflepuffs.

Coming from the Dursley's, I wasn't used to knowing when I'd get a meal, or if I'd even get a meal. My life with them was one long stretch of unknown territory. It wasn't uncommon for me to go three days in a row, with little more than a slice of toast and a small glass of milk for breakfast or lunch. If I screwed up, or if Uncle Vernon was simply in a foul mood, those items were sometimes restricted as well.

Weeks could pass and I'd become sleepless, cold, agitated. The weight would drop off me, especially in summer time, and more so once I began studying at Hogwarts, which always perplexed me but was something I never questioned. I'd go to bed with a belly of acid and wake up with knees that looked a little knobbier, a little bonier. Each autumn, I almost always returned to school a stone or so under my previous weight.

When I was little, I just thought that was my lot in life. I was told that I was treated appropriately, and that I deserved my treatment – that I deserved punishment. I guess after awhile, I just figured that they were right and I was wrong. Maybe I DID deserve some of the restrictions, some of their anger. I certainly went on to meet others that felt the same. Snape, and Malfoy, and essentially the entire Slytherin house, for whatever reason.

But I also made connections with people who tried to change my outlook, who showed me tenderness and warmth and friendship. Who thought I was a good person, not a wretched one.

Dumbledore, Hagrid, Hermione, Ron, Remus, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Ginny and later…Sirius. And I trusted them more than I had ever trusted anyone, so for awhile, I think I started to feel okay with myself, feel okay with what was the past, because I had convinced myself that I wasn't to blame.

Sirius once told me that I was a very good person but that I had undergone very bad things. Though they were simple words, I found them haunting, because he didn't know everything. No one knew everything, and I never had any intentions of letting anyone know aspects of my past. What was done was done, and there was nothing anyone could say or do, no matter how much they cared about me – to change the past.

So even though Sirius only knew some of what upset me, some of my problems, his words still struck a chord – because they applied to everything I had ever experienced that I wanted to forget, that I wanted to deny. The things he knew about, and the things he didn't. And his eyes seemed to radiate this knowledge, as if he knew something about my spirit – that it was ultimately pure, and that nothing could change that, and if I could believe it, everything would be okay.

In the end, everything would be fine. As if I wasn't, deep down, contaminated. As if he knew – knew everything – but didn't care. His eyes seemed to implore: _**trust me**_.

After that point, I almost had the crazy, intense desire to talk to him about it all. I was shaky with this need to let him know, to have _**someone**_ know, because if I kept it all inside I thought I'd perhaps lose it entirely. I was just so **angry**.

He explained that this didn't make me bad. He told me that my anger was natural, that it was righteous anger at being hurt and having others I care about also hurt. He told me that my rage was expected – and I believed him. But lately, I'm questioning whether or not he was right. It's possible that he may have been mistaken, isn't it?

_Because here I am, barely 16, and I'm surrounded by death._

My mother and my father died to protect me. I'm alive, and I continue to live – despite situations that would have undoubtedly cost anyone else _their_ life. Some days, I almost feel as if I cannot die, as if I will simply make my way through this life and be forced to watch everyone else I care about be tortured and abused, and killed. Cedric last year, and now Sirius. I try not to think about him sometimes, but it's almost as hard not to think of him as it is to recall his life, our time together.

Whenever I close my eyes I see his face, I see his eyes, I hear his voice – so clearly. Occasionally, my sleep is dreamless, and I awake feeling okay, and those moments are almost blissful. Yet they never last, and are soon replaced with an odd, momentary confusion: thinking that he is still alive, and wondering why I fear that he is gone. And when I remember that he isn't here anymore – that he **is** gone – and it hurts almost as much as it did when I first lost him.

There is an actual constriction in my chest, as if some entity has wrapped ice cold hands around my heart and is squeezing the muscle, preventing the blood from entering. In the muggle world, they speak of God, and in those moments I pray. I pray, _"just let me see him once more, please God, just for a moment."_ I almost think that I might have been able to get through all the rest – the stuff Sirius knew about and the stuff he didn't – if only I could see him again. If only I could talk to him one last time.

I didn't know how badly I could miss someone or grieve for someone until he died. I think my capacity to hope, maybe even to love fully, also died with him. Because I cannot bring myself to feel the same way about Hermione or Ron as I did before. I feel close to them, but at some level, some very deep level – I have already started to say goodbye to them as well. Maybe that way, when they die, it won't hurt quite so much. Maybe if I prepare for it now – I won't go through this same horrible feeling again. I won't feel as if a cheese grater has been taken to my chest, as if I am being cut up from the inside out.

Everyone who spends too much time with me, who comes to care for me – they suffer for it. I see this fact so clearly now, whereas when I was little, I mistakenly thought I was the one suffering. The reality is that I _**cause**_ suffering. My very existence causes suffering.

And here I have Dumbledore and countless others refer to me as their hope against the dark forces in the world. How can I live up to all the expectations of those who see my life, which should have ended in infancy, as a miraculous occurrence?

I don't feel very miraculous. I don't feel much of anything that is **good** anymore. I try to stay distracted, and focus on the rituals of the Hogwarts calendar or my own rituals of how to act and what to say to Professors, to my classmates, to my established enemies, to my established friends. I pretend to be all right. I pretend that I am finish mourning for him, but the truth for the matter is that I don't think I've even started yet.

I have never felt more lost or empty. Or, when I don't feel empty I only feel rage and grief and the most foul of all emotions: hatred. I feel it boil up inside me, polluting my body and mind. I feel its power work its way through my veins, I feel the caustic rise of aggression, the desire to destroy and break things and lash out.

It scares me so much – this hatred, this grief. I want to lance it from my body, remove it from my soul. But there isn't a charm I can cast that will accomplish this feat. There is no potion I can swallow to make the feelings go away.

I've tried to ignore it. I've tried muggle alternatives – sneaking from the stores of rum in Uncle Vernon's cabinet, until the acidic warmth of my belly met the even more attractive warmth of alcohol. For a time, it helped, but only slightly. It was never strong enough, and I had to be careful to never ingest too much. To never get caught.

I spent some of my money on different things. I purchased sleeping remedies, but they only made me groggy the next day, and I never got my chores completed in time. There were several fights over my drowsiness, over my "laziness", and one of those fights ended in my back meeting up with my Uncle's belt – something I had avoided for years. Another incident was even worse, and had I not been so completely out-of-it, well, it probably wouldn't have even happened in the first place. For that I am to blame. For that reason, I cannot feel pity for myself – only disgust.

I think that's how it began – the cutting. I needed something effective, something that I could control and that took all my focus and energy and directed it into one, neat, expected end. Something that would temporarily swell within me, blot out my horrible rage and my incapacitating sadness and allow me to get through the day without losing it entirely. But I also needed something that wouldn't leave me vulnerable to predations, that wouldn't affect my ability to react to move away from danger.

So that's the reason for why I'm currently in the boy's washroom this evening, more than an hour into what should be my Quidditch practice time, with a razor that I've dismantled from my muggle shaver in my right hand. That's why I currently have said razor pressed up against my left arm, ready to make the next clean slice in a series of beautiful, clean slices.

I think of _it_ as being akin to meditation, although I couldn't very well sell Hermione or Ron on something that looks this gruesome using the term "meditative". And it's not as if I'm trying to kill myself. If that was my goal, I would already be dead. This isn't about suicide.

Plus, I'm sure my friends have their own little secrets that they keep from me as well.

But more than that, I could never tell them because I know what they will think of it, and of me. They'll think there is something very wrong with me; they wouldn't understand how beneficial the slight, controlled application of pain could possibly be for someone in my position. Because, at one time, before I needed it – before there was _true need_ – I don't think I would have understood it any better either.

That's what **this** is now – a need. This application of a little force, a little pain, is keeping me together. And the cost is minute. All I have to do is sacrifice the surface of my skin. That's really such a small price to pay for what I get in return.

The swelling of pain, and the waning of it afterwards… It leaves me feeling limp, calmed, but not unscathed. I feel like it is a perfect blend of comfort and punishment. If I thought myself totally innocent, perhaps I could go to Hermione and Ron, or even Remus. They would say something to placate me, to assure me that I'm normal, to assure me that there is nothing that I could have done for Cedric or for Sirius, or even, maybe, for my parents. Or maybe, if I could have brought myself to tell them – they would have argued that I couldn't even blame myself for what has happened with my Uncle, for what has happened there.

But I just don't believe them anymore. I _want_ to believe them, but I'm convinced that they would say anything to take away my pain. And what if that is wrong? What if I SHOULD feel pain? What if the Dursley's are right after all?

At least I know I am not truly innocent. I don't think anyone can have such ugly thoughts swirling through their mind and be a good person. I've been thinking about that a lot lately. About what separates me from anyone else, from anyone I would have previously thought of as bad, or even evil. How am I, Harry James Potter, all that different from a death eater, or Uncle Vernon, or even Voldemort himself?

---

Late September 

---

The bathroom is cloudy with steam by the time I finally enter. I disrobe apprehensively, and run my hands over my chest; fingers gliding over pallid skin, coming to pause near the site of an old injury. The other Gryffindors have just about cleared out.

_Perfect._

I cringe in apprehension: the old cuts on my arm look odd in the dark light of the shower room. They have a yellow tinge, and I sigh. I really have no _idea_ if I let them get infected. I honestly haven't been paying attention to all that much in the last few weeks. So I turn off the shower and listen carefully to determine if anyone else is lingering around. Fairly certain that I am alone, I swipe for my navy towel and wrap it around my waist before exiting the stall and making my way over to the rusted sinks. There is a little more light near that area, and light is what I need right now.

I'm in the process of examining the wounds when I hear the doors squeak tellingly and a familiar voice calls out into the steamy room. It's almost a déjà vu experience, except that the voice this time is masculine. Which, given my state of undress, is undoubtedly preferable. All I would need now is Hermione coming in here to mother me while I'm, essentially, naked.

"Ron! Give me a moment, okay?"

I'm trying to cover up my arm with my Quidditch top before he makes his way over to me.

"Well, well, well - if we aren't Mr. Modest today. Most Gryffindors aren't really this **secretive you know**", he laughs and starts to tug on my shirt in play, which I have half slung around my head and left arm, _**thank Merlin**_.

_The cuts are concealed for now, but if he keeps tugging on my top there is a possibility…_

"Bugger off! I'm getting changed here!" and I immediately wince, my tone and my words bordering on aggressive. I see the amused glint in his eyes die out and he props himself up a little straighter.

"Alright man. Fine. I just went looking for you to let you know that Ginny's gonna have your head. Quidditch practice is almost over – again - and you are in here… getting a _shower_? Have you even gone to more than a handful of practice sessions this month?" he finishes in a petulant tone.

I'm trying to shrug off his reactivity, and come across as cool with the whole thing, but I've effectively stopped changing. If I shift around to grab the other sleeve, my shirt is going to ride up and expose my arm. As it stands, the shirt has crept up my chest and is exposing more than enough to make me self-conscious. As if reading my mind, Ron starts in on this.

"_**Bloody Merlin**_ Harry! Look at your chest!" and I pull away before he can finish commenting.

"Look Ron, if you don't leave me alone and let me finish getting dressed I'm not going to make it to the practice at all and…", but he decides to cut me off, his face an odd mixture of suspicion and concern. He's definitely been spending too much time with Hermione. It's a classic Hermione look, but on Ron it looks foreign, and is unwanted.

"Forget Quidditch Harry. Come on…get dressed… You're coming with me for early dinner. Merlin you are starting to look sick, and you haven't been eating around us… and now I'm starting to think that you aren't eating at all!"

I almost laugh at that.

"Ron, we have only been back at school for a month! Don't you think you are jumping the gun a little bit? And I eat. I make it for most of the meals, don't I?"

He stares at me with a tired look on his face, and for one rapid-fire moment I feel a burst of anger take a hold of me. And then it is gone, and I feel okay again.

"Harry – you eat so little though... Seriously mate, you got to eat more. I mean, _you_ especially – what with your running and with Quidditch and everything. You can't keep having the odd bowl of soup. That's not enough! You know it's not enough!"

They've been on my case since I was 11 about being too thin so I'm starting to find the whole thing exasperating. But I know if I keep making excuses things are going to get worse, so I turn around and quickly finish getting dressed in a nearby stall.

---

I bypass Ginny as I make my way to my seat. She looks up at me not unkindly, and sort of points questioningly to my outfit – the bright colors of the Quidditch shirt poking through my black robes. I mouth "sorry", and shrug, composing some sort of excuse for later. I've already ticked off Ron and worried Hermione lately – I'd like to stay in good standing with at least one friend.

By the time I sit down, I know full well that Ron and Hermione have been talking about me, as they grow quiet. Hermione speaks first.

"Well, Ron tells me you've decided to try something other than soup today. You must be ravenous, huh?" She throws me an encouraging smile, and I don't want to disappoint her.

_But I'm not really hungry._

She's not finished either: her eyes scan my frame, and she frowns, as do I, cause I know what's coming next.

"Harry, you know we don't mean to badger you about this, but you are starting to look really skinny. And you were already so thin before, you know? But now…" her voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper so as to not attract the attention of everyone else.

_**Goodness, she's not done harping on this yet?**_

"…and you didn't eat at all today, nor yesterday. Did you eat this week? I mean – something other than broth or tomato soup? Cause I know I asked you if you were sick at start of term – and you said no, but if you aren't eating at all…" She sounds almost timid, her eyebrows scrunched in slight apprehension and she looks to Ron, apparently to see if he has anything else to add to this non-conversation. I feel an odd thundering in my chest, a twinge of guilt at making them worry.

Words, sentences – they do not come. I feel frozen, and my own voice fails me. All I know is that I am too tired for any of this. I guess she senses this because her tone immediately softens.

"Look you guys…" I begin, and my eyes make their way between the pair, begging them to understand everything without me having to say anything.

"I haven't felt great, no. But I'm not exactly sick. I just haven't been that hungry. Soup just feels sort of soothing right now, and it's got to be more nutritious than fried chicken and sugary desserts, right? So what does it MATTER if I don't eat those things? I don't really feel like anything else, and if I needed something else – I'd be craving it by now. It's not like I'm going to starve, so please – just let it go, okay?"

Hermione looks less than convinced. "Well, are you going to have something? Something light maybe? I'm not saying you should go from eating so little to eating a _Ron-amount_…but maybe your appetite will return if you eat a LITTLE more?"

Her voice has taken on a pleading edge, and after a few moments I relent, just to appease her, grabbing a small dessert bowl and filling it partway with tapioca. It's relatively light (certainly better than anything else I'm going to find here) and my only real option considering they both seem to have something against soup right now.

Hermione gives me another glance, before returning to a previous argument with Ron. I tune them out and concentrate on crushing the tapioca balls between by teeth. After a few mouthfuls I feel ridiculously full, and break the remaining pearls with the back of my spoon, squashing the bulk against the bowl and spreading the dessert against the outer edge of the dish.

I just cannot **stomach** anything right now. Weight feels accusing in my belly. It just sits there. Oppressive. I hate the slight swell of my belly after ingesting anything, the heightened awareness of my stomach making use of the food, turning, moving, processing stuff I don't need. Hunger too, I hate, but not so much as feeling full.

I don't want to feel food in my body. I don't want to have weight in my body, dragging me down, making me feel heavier. And I don't know why.

---

The sky is a purple-pink and I'm _**still**_wide-awake. Morning again – and it's gorgeous - but I really can't appreciate the beauty of the sky right now.

I can sense the others throughout the room. I can sense their energies. Neville turns slightly, his body instinctively coming to the edge of his bed before stilling. As a first year, he fell out of that bed countless times. For his sake, thank goodness that has stopped.

I watch the digital reading on my green muggle watch for a few minutes. It's almost 5 am and I know that I'm not going to get any rest in the next two hours. Or technically, I could sleep in until 8 pm and still make it to Potions, but why cut it so close? I slump back down and close my eyes – the sabulous feeling expected, but disappointing. I decide I might as well get up, get a shower, and make the most of my morning.

I retrieve a quill from my nightstand, find a piece of usable parchment, and scrawl out in neat print:

**Ron: I went for a walk and caught early breakfast in the quad. (Those house elves do come in handy – just don't let Hermione know I think so!). Make sure you try the pasties this morning – they are better than ever. Or maybe I just haven't had them in awhile, huh? See you in Potions.**

**-Harry**

The house elves offer pumpkin pasties _most _mornings, and Ron is chronically late to breakfast. I hope my note looks convincing, but I know he's not going to accuse me of lying and the whole thing is plausible. I could have easily gone to early breakfast. The only problem is that Hermione usually is up and has breakfast at 7. I'll just have to cover my tracks.

I find a pair of old runners that Sirius and I bought together during a day off in London. They were originally black, with green laces and a vibrant green Nike swoosh on either side, but they have lately taken on a gray appearance from excessive tromping through muddy sections of the tracks and parks.

I make my way through the halls, decked out in maroon sweats and a long sleeved royal blue waffle shirt. It's not even 5.30, but I decide I might as well head towards the kitchens, and request a little snack from the house elves. If push comes to shove, I can explain that "early breakfast", for me, was at 5.30 in the morning and not 7. It's better than having absolutely no alibi. The great hall is still dark, and I maneuver to the back hall, beyond the area where the professors usually have their meals, before I reach an arching doorway and knock gently.

A noble little face, warm and smiling, immediately catches my eye. It's a female elf, wearing two extraordinarily long magenta socks on her arms, with small holes for her thumbs and fingers. It reminds me of a ballet student's apparel, but looks quite bazaar on this tiny being, not more than three feet in height, with sallow, wrinkled skin.

"Good morning Dulcey."

"Good morning to you Harry Potter! I sees from your outfit that you are going for an early jog, is I'm right?"

Dulcey has a peculiar way of speaking. She often mixes up "is" with "am" and has an amusing way of stringing sentences together. Almost reminiscent of the muggle character Yoda, or something. I try not to laugh, and nod in confirmation.

"You are right Dulcey. I want to train a little harder for Quidditch practice – so I'm thinking I might just start going to sleep earlier and adding a run in the morning. You know for endurance and all."

Her pleasant little face stares up at mine with respect and patience, and I add, "So anyway, I am wondering if you could perhaps provide me with some pumpkin pasties so I can fuel up? Only if you have some already made, of course. That way I can have a little breakfast before my run and have time to get a shower before my classes begin."

Her face lights up with happiness, and she darts back into the kitchen, only to return a few minutes later with three well cooked pasties.

"Can I get you something to drink Harry Potter?" her nimble fingers run together in apprehension of a request.

"No, this is great! But, you know I might be by about this time in the mornings from now on…"

Dulcey, understanding what I am asking, grins even more widely if possible and enthusiastically cuts in, "Oh yeses! I understand, yes. I can have pasties for you each morning…ready for you? Is good? If you like, ready every morning for this time Harry Potter?"

I smile. I now have a valid excuse for missing breakfast.

---

I jog down by the runner's path, pass the lake, and throw the three pasties into the pond. I immediately feel safer once I see them bobbing on the surface of the water and then – as they sink, I feel even more relaxed. It was a close call, but I realize my food intake has been cut down significantly in the last couple of weeks, and although I feel much purer, I also have been having odd reactions due to the restriction. I've lost a little weight, sure, but nothing major. However, more interestingly is that the last few nights I have dreamed about food, dreamed about being in Honeyduke's gorging on gummies and chocolate frogs, stuffing the food into my mouth so quickly I can barely breathe.

I always feel immense relief when I wake up and realize that it was a dream, or rather – a nightmare - but this morning, holding the warm pasties in my hand, smelling the pumpkin and caramel glaze, knowing that I could just lift them to my lips and wolf down the confections was, well, unnerving.

Even after I threw them away, there was a brief pang of loss, a sense that I should have kept them in my possession. Not to eat, but just to keep close by. It was beyond weird.

I try to drown out thoughts of food, of bingeing, which is both a wonderful and terrifying thought, and return my focus to the task at hand: running.

It's not cold enough yet to worry about layers, or so I think, but I'm surprised all the same when after a few minutes out on the Quidditch diamond, I begin to feel frozen. I rub my hands together and pick up the pace until a familiar warmth spreads throughout my calves and thighs and my lungs start to prickle and burn.

I'm on lap seven, my breath coming quickly, when I start to feel unbelievably dizzy. I reach for a bleacher end and use it to hold myself up, but as I look up at the sky, everything goes white as if I am being exposed to some sort of supernova blast. The overcast sky, the early fall sky, is covered in clouds and the purple-pink beauty of dawn has been replaced with a cool, biting whiteness.

Perhaps I haven't consumed enough water lately. Maybe that's why I feel faint? I usually drink a fair bit, especially between classes to keep my stomach from growling, but right this minute I feel as if my knees "have turned to jelly". There is no support, no use in trying to stand - my legs are shaking and the wooziness is back. All of a sudden my pulse is pounding in my head, the blood cruising through my eardrums, _shssss, shssss, shhhssssssss_. A rushing sound, too loud, too fast.

I look upwards again, see stars, and feel a rush of sickness overtake me before I heave onto a patch of earth near my legs. I spit out the excess sick, and wipe the edges of my mouth with my shirt. For a moment I think I can hear something nearby, not unlike the sound of snapping twigs of crinkly leaves. But there is nothing.

I analyze what little I've voided with a sort of morbid fascination. I must admit that it feels better to have my stomach completely purged. I feel – clean, good.

Last night Hermione urged me to have a medley of vegetables to compliment my usual cup of vegetable broth, and the peas and carrot bits and corn pieces felt uncomfortable going down: a goopy, impure mass of foods that I don't need and don't want. They also hadn't digested at all by the looks of things.

_Well – that's pretty. Ugh._

I scrape some browning, dying grass together with my hands and cover up the small mass of vomit before hobbling away a little bit. No need to sit right next to it.

I decide to remain still and close my eyes, willing my body to behave. I stay in this position for several moments, losing track of time before everything becomes all the worse.

---

"What do you think you are you doing out of your dormitory at this hour?"

The voice is like silk, and cutting – colder than my razor. I almost have the urge to vomit again.

_Oh Merlin, I don't need this!_

I look up to see the face of my detested Potions professor, hovering not more than a few feet away from me.

Snape's hands roughly grab me and I try not to cry out in surprise as he wraps his fingers around my forearms, applying too much pressure to the delicate fresh cuts that are, of course, hidden beneath my shirt. He forces me to my feet. But what he wants and what I can provide are two different things, as my knees give way and I slump back to the ground.

_**Leave me alone, you bloody git!**_

I keep my eyes clamped shut, as if to will Snape away, and after a few moments there is no noise, no sound. I realize I must look ridiculous and I open my eyes almost fearfully, hoping the previous few seconds were simply a hallucination.

Snape is staring at me with a look I've never seen from him before. As if I am a fascinating new specimen that he should study and not a character that he hates. His face shows no malice, but I feel my stomach plunge when I notice that his eyes have turned to my arm.

"Are you injured Mr. Potter?", and I shake my head. I assume he saw me wince. But he did grab me rather forcefully.

Of course, whatever powers that be seem to have it in for me these days, as my recent stress-relief session lead to some rather deep incisions, and his rough handling lead to the tearing open of these wounds, causing them to bleed once again.

And, just my luck, the blood has wept through the shirt - calling my bluff.

"You are not hurt? This is curious as your shirt is doing a formidable job of soaking up blood", he begins with a sneer, "Please do not waste my time Potter! Let me see what you've done now - aside from running yourself into the ground and vomiting all over the training field at 5 in the morning."

A million thoughts are going through my head. One is to simply run as fast as I can away from Snape, but he more than likely will prevent me from getting too far. Not that I would likely get too far anyway, given how I feel at the moment.

I also cannot very well attempt a concealing charm with him **right** by my side.

I could try ignoring his request and hope he drops the subject, but the likelihood of that happening is so remote that I don't even entertain the idea for more than a moment.

But most importantly, I'm wondering how Snape knew I was even OUT at this time! Ron, Hermione and I have been out of the castle enough times to know that the building isn't, for want of a better term, magically alarmed.

And Snape doesn't strike me as the kind who goes for morning constitutionals.

His expression turns even sourer, if possible, with my delay in responding.

"Your reluctance is not improving my mood", he says with a scowl, and before I have a moment to recover, he has grasped me once more and is pulling back the edge of my shirt, exposing one extremely pale arm which is currently covered in several dozen crisscrossed lines, all at varying stages of healing.

The ones from the summertime have already healed as well as they ever will and have left purple keloid scars that stand out brilliantly in the cold morning air. I am almost fond of those ones. They were made shortly after Sirius died, shortly before I returned to the Dursley's for my 'holiday'. Those were the very deepest, and now remain the prettiest and most impressive testament to my atonement.

The newer ones have scabbed. I hate scabs, but it is part of the process and I must take the bad with the good.

The ones from this morning have started bleeding again, so my arm looks messy and bloody. This fact irritates me. I like it when the lines stand out, but not when it looks messy, not when it looks _**sloppy**_. As if no care or control were at work. As if I just made the cuts savagely with no thought as to what I was doing.

_**I knew damn well what I was doing.**_

I don't meet Snape's eyes, or say anything. Part of me is angrier about the fact that he has broken my ritual rather than punctured my skin. It was my compulsion, my act – and he ruined the process of it all. I rub at the fresh wounds with the hem of the blue shirt to blot up the blood, unconcerned now with Snape's presence, his awareness. I don't care for him more than in a most basic sense - my human respect for his physical being. It's not as if I care about what he thinks of me.

_**I know what he thinks of me.**_

"Get up", he says. His voice sounds odd. I cannot put my finger on what it is that sounds so different about it – the timber? _Something._ He doesn't sound pleased to have found me hurt, nor angry, nor disappointed. He sounds almost… resigned?

"We are going to see Madame Pomfrey, and then you and the headmaster are going to have a little talk so we can come to some arrangement… as to what to do about this _**mess**_."

I don't say anything, but simply follow his lead. I guess I agree with him. I am in a mess. A very small part of me knows it, but a very large part of me doesn't care anymore.

---

Snape isn't looking at me, or speaking to me, as we make our way through the halls. Usually, the smallest mistake on my part is met with incredible animosity. But I have yet to receive his typical scathing remarks or his sneers this morning. He walks aside me at a brisk pace, and I blink several times still feeling a little off balance as I rush to keep in step. I can feel his eyes darting over to me occasionally, taking in my form, and then resuming their focus dead center on the walkway before us. His silence is almost more unnerving than anything else.

We make our way up the stairs and as I fall behind for a moment, causing him to slow. I tap my watch with one finger, to try and set off the indi-glow light. It's not even 6 am yet.

_**This is, without a doubt, the most dragged out morning of my life.**_

As we near the infirmary, I start to feel apprehensive. I don't know how Madame Pomfrey will respond, but that's not what is worrying me right now. What worries me is that I know that regardless of anything else she'll try to heal my wounds. And I don't want that.

I didn't make them so they could just be **erased**. They soothe me, largely, because they are _**there**_. They are always with me – a physical presence of my own construction. Raised, scabbed flesh under my robe. I can run my fingers over the lines during a class, and that's comforting. I can apply pressure to my arm against the corner of my desk, and it's reassuring to know that no matter where I am, or whoever is around me, I can induce pain.

So if she heals the cuts, I'm not going to have that ability anymore.

I realize I must have stalled again because Snape pushes me from behind, and says in a low growl, "You will enter this infirmary immediately if you know what's best for you."

And I do, but only because I can see no way out of this situation. I don't have any other options and resistance will only make everything worse. So despite the fact that every fiber of my being is screaming at me to run for it, I dejectedly comply; Snape leads me over to an examination cot crammed in an alcove at the far left of the room, and indicates that I should sit.

"Lie down and remain here. I warn you now – don't consider leaving if you know what's best for you." He almost spits that out, before turning on his heel and leaving through the same door that we just entered - apparently on a mission to locate our head nurse who is not yet in the infirmary.

Taking in my surroundings, I notice vials and gauze on a nearby metal table. It looks not unlike a TV dinner tray stand, but the base of the table has long spindly legs and the whole thing glistens brilliantly.

I can smell antiseptic and rubbing alcohol in the air, which strikes me as strange. Most wounds in the wizarding world can be healed fairly easily with either spells or potions. Of course, deep wounds – extensive wounds that lash right into bone or ligaments are a little more difficult to heal. Most potions work internally and speed up the body's natural healing ability, but they don't do so immediately if the damage is severe, and so, on rare occasions – old-fashioned muggle supplies come in handy.

I look over my battered arm now, and realize that my wounds are simply superficial and will likely be eradicated very rapidly.

Turning my attention to composing myself as best as I can under the circumstance, I spit on the edge of my sleeve and use the dampness to help rub away some of the congealing blood. My injuries are not bad at all, but my razor is always kept quite sharp, and the cuts always bleed a fair bit, thus they always look worse than they are, unless I am careful to keep the area clean.

I manage to dissolve most of the crusted blood, careful not to reopen the slight bubble of fluid that has already formed over each line.

And then I count the cuts.

There are 33.

I'm about to recount, when Madame Pomfrey hurries into the room, her face pinched. Snape follows closely behind.

She approaches me with an air of hurried purpose, and I tug my shirt hem back down.

"Come on now. Your professor has told me that you have some injuries that require my attention. Off with the shirt, Harry."

She's circumnavigating, not quite addressing the real issue, the real concern and I find myself honestly surprised by how everyone is treating me. I was expecting – _I don't know_ – shouting, or ridicule, or perhaps pity. But her voice sounds so factual and levelheaded, her face drawn and doleful.

I swallow a rather large and painful lump, and shake my head.

I'm not taking off my shirt – that's what my actions say.

"Mr. Potter. I don't have time to coax you into compliance. I want to see for myself if…" she trails off, takes a breath, and continues, "I need to see your arm Harry. Please roll down your shirt."

My anger is back at that, even though not a second before I felt nothing but perplexity and fatigue. My emotions are all over the place today – mercurial and raging.

I turn to the elderly mediwitch, my line of sight focused on some spot that mars the adjacent wall. It looks like a scratch in the grain of the wood: some poor soul trying to claw their way out of this infernal hovel, no doubt.

"I'm not hurt, okay? I'm fine! So if you'd please just leave me the hell alone…!"

I get up, aggravated – PISSED – and start to make my way to the door. Fat chance Snape is going to use magic on me right now – not with another staff member present. After all, he saves his power displays for when he is alone with students, and I realize that if I can get away now – get away quickly – I can just leave the school entirely. Sprint away to Hogsmeade or something and give myself some much needed down time. I almost smile at the thought.

It would certainly be a better course of action than lingering around here, stuck in this dingy castle amongst mothering friends and leery, calculating teachers.

I cross my arms over my chest and start to walk away from the two flabbergasted adults. Snape cuts me off at the pass, and blocks my exit from the infirmary.

"You are in way over your head, boy! **Sit. Back. Down**."

He looks as aggrieved as I know I must look myself; his former unreadable silence now eclipsed by typical hostility.

"I realize I was out of my dorms, sir, and I'll serve detention or whatever it is that you think I should do – but I'm not hurt, and I don't need to be here, and this is all rubbish!"

He snorts at my exasperation and nods to Pomfrey, talking to her now as if I wasn't even in the room.

"He's not cooperating. Not that I expected this to be easy. You'd best to get the Headmaster while I stay here."

I push past him at that, aware that I'm looking more and more out of control with each passing moment, and he grabs me yet again, his hands like twin vices around my wrists. But at the same time, I can sense that he is being careful not to apply any undue or excessive force. He is simply trying to make it impossible for me to leave.

"Let GO of me you bastard!"

Ponfrey looks stunned my shouting, her face contorted with disbelief. Snape forces me back down onto the cot, all the while I struggle against him, new borne panic lapping at the edge of consciousness, propelling me to fight, to get away, to escape.

I cry out. Not with intelligible words.

"Stop it right now, Potter!"

My breath is coming raggedly now, and I feel somewhat disconnected, as if I am watching a scene unfold from above. As if I am a heavenly observer, and not an earthly participant. As if my spirit has disconnected itself from its body and is floating just outside of my physical body, aware that there is a boy who is breathing too fast and is damn near to hyperventilating, being held firmly - unable to escape.

Part of me is aware of all of this. Part of me feels completely splintered, completely removed. It's the part that speaks to myself in the darkness of my room, the part that guides me. The voice of my consciousness, that thundering presence that always surrounds humans when awake.

And then there is my body, which is thrashing about, feeling weak and yet simultaneously overexcited.

I register the voice again - Snape's voice. Firm, but uncharacteristically gentle. It sounds almost…consoling.

"Calm down Harry! Before we are forced to sedate you. You are making everything much, much worse for yourself."

And I feel then as if I have no more air in my lungs. I feel as if I have been fighting for a thousand years. As if I am the spirit of everything wild and everything harmed.

"You are going to hyperventilate! Come on! Listen to me before you pass out. Focus on my voice."

_**Ok.**_

"Don't think of anything. Don't struggle – no one is going to hurt you. Nothing bad is going to come of this. You're safe now."

And that's all it takes. Those few, direct words are all it takes to pierce through my armor.

Maybe it's because the voice telling me all this is none other than my most feared professor, who is now holding me not exactly unkindly, not with malice or disgust, but with resolute intent on having me treated. Or maybe it's because I believe the words this man is speaking and I am relieved that I can finally stop. Stop trying to hide, to pretend.

Ultimately, and for whatever reason, at that moment everything that I had tried to tune out for the last four months – every strong emotion, every feeling I've denied – rushes to the fore. It's a torrential force, this pain, and it causes me to gasp. It's involuntary, inexorable, much as my vomiting was earlier this morning. I don't expect it. It just happens. It happens so rapidly that it takes my breath away.

I begin to cry.

---

Only a moment has passed, but in that moment, my body has gone from tensed and ready to flee – to utterly, pityingly drained.

Snape doesn't say anything, but instead relaxes his grip on my body, which affords me the opportunity to curl up into a corner of the cot. Ugly sobs continue to force their up through my throat and out of my mouth, divulging my hitherto concealed pain to the world.

After a few minutes the tears stop. The stinging warm heat of saline tapers off and soon my breathing begins to normalize. Already I try to recover from my momentary breakdown. Gingerly, slowly, I rub away the evidence of moisture on my face and sink into the slight warmth of the bed, still and hyper vigilant – and not a second too soon, as I can now hear the rushed sounds of figures echoing down the corridor.

I'm right on the mark of course, and turn my head towards the entrance way even before Snape responds, only to see the blue cloaked form of Dumbledore move into the room.

Dumbledore looks at me, his blue eyes piercing and troubled, before indicating to Madame Pomfrey.

"I hear we have a very upset young man in our midst, Severus" to which he turns to me, "would like a chance to speak, Harry? Madame Pomfrey has informed me that you were rather upset with being asked to come here in the first place."

_**Asked?**_

There is no way I can begin to explain any of this right now. I wouldn't know how to start, and Dumbledore seems to understand my predicament.

"Of course, tensions can run high when people are not well rested. So I'm thinking the best course of action right now is to simply let someone tend to your physical injuries, and then for you to sleep."

It's not a suggestion, but a statement, and he makes his way past Snape, who has now backed off and is standing a fair distance away, his eyes taking in the whole scene with the sort of analytical detachment that one would find in a barn owl while searching for mice.

Dumbledore has now fixed his gaze on Snape, realizing that I'm not about to start talking, and that Pomfrey cannot offer much help.

"I am, of course, not in the habit of wasting the time of others over…the small trifles of adolescents, Headmaster. But when I find obvious evidence of self-mutilation, I cannot in good conscience turn my back on any student."

Dumbledore nods resignedly, and looks back to me at this, before lowering his body to sit on the edge of the bed.

"I think we will have to see that arm now, Harry. May I?" and he indicates to my now stained shirt, before rolling up the edge.

Dumbledore then lightly skims his hand over the base of my arm, studying the markings before adding, "Okay, so this is it, is it? Have you cut yourself anywhere else Harry?"

My sense that I'm living through some deranged nightmare comes back to me full-force. He's too calm. They're all so damn calm! I gulp down my nervousness and bat away my mentors' hand softly, scratching the skin near my wounds, before shaking my head.

I have, in fact, cut my thighs but did not find the site quite so pleasing. However, I'm not about to show them my hand and reveal my cards.

So I pretend, and I shake my head, and hope they buy it and try to keep my anger from bubbling to the surface.

This _**ISN'T**_ a big deal. And yet everyone is making a huge fucking deal out of it all, and the incongruity between what I have experienced in seeing Cedric die, only to then lose Sirius – all of _**that**_ stands out in stark comparison.

I feel angered that these lives are now so easily cast aside while a few shallow cuts have warranted so much attention.

The whole month seems to have mocked their suffering, their loss. From overly concerned Hermione, pestering me to eat, to Ron pointing out my natural thinness as if I'm _**sick**_, and now Snape "breaking rank" and treating me like some delicate piece of china! All of it is making me incensed.

I want death to mean something. So, in comparison, I want a small, insignificant cut to mean next to nothing. Yet everyone is focusing on the wrong issues, the wrong wounds – and are making a big fuss out of what amounts to a paper cut. But in actuality I've been **amputated** - a whole part of me _lopped off_, **gone**.

_**And they focus on mere scratches.**_

**A/N:** Part 2? Let me know what you guys think. Harry is a very angst-filled character, so when I'm feeling angst ridden …he tends to get it in the neck. :/

There is something cathartic about moving a character through a self-destructive stage to one that is a little healthier and accepting. Given Harry's past history of abuse, and his recent loss as of OoTP, I don't think anything here is too far fetched. An abusive past tends to prime someone to self-injure, because it slowly convinces a person that they are more or less worthless, or that their physical or emotional pain doesn't matter (especially if the abuse begins in childhood, as it did in Harry's case).

And grief seems to be a pretty big trigger, because the intense pain can be overwhelming. It comes as a pretty big shock for someone who is used to having their needs denied – or who have repressed their emotions for most of their life.

I just wanted to make it clear that self-injurious acts don't always seem "bad" (as in sick, or wrong or anything else) to the person who is, for example, cutting, or engaging in eating disordered behaviors – although these people usually understand that others would likely see their behaviors as pathological. Most self-injurers harm in private, and go to extreme measures to not be found out. This is true of those with eating disorders too, although it may be harder to conceal anorexic or restrictive behaviors, obviously.

Anyway, if there is any interest in this story, I'll continue with a second chapter. 


	2. The Only Thing That's Real

**A/N:** thanks for the reviews everyone!! Your input is _very important_ to me.

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**Morsatra:** thanks! **Waves**

**YamiNoTenshi:** I am _**extremely**_ sorry to hear about the loss of your friend, Rosie. Anytime you lose a friend, it's a terrible blow – but to die from an eating disorder… (**no words**).

ED's are heinous diseases. Hell to live through, a constant nightmare from morning to night, through binges and starve cycles and everything else in a frantic attempt to somehow…do what? Feel better? To those without an ed, it doesn't make sense. There is no reason in it.

Knowing how much I care for my family, if someone I loved was getting sicker and sicker and all my efforts were not making a whit of difference – that would be a horrible situation - that sense of helplessness.

As you may suspect, I was very sick with anorexia in the past and was nearly hospitalized myself. After experiencing some very frightening symptoms (heart related problems and internal bleeding) I somehow forced myself through recovery (although I use it loosely, the term, because I'm still not completely "normal" with food. But I've come a long way).

I have managed to not have any massive relapses in the last three years now, so I'm doing okay. Better than expected, actually. (Although, not knowing exactly why I slipped initially…it's hard to know exactly what I should do (or not do) to prevent myself from falling back down the rabbit hole).

It is **hard**. It is MUCH more emotionally trying to stick to a meal plan, and force yourself to do the very actions that cause you so much anxiety in the first place. It's the hardest thing I have _**ever**_ had to do, bar none. Nothing comes close it, as far as "emotionally-demanding" situations are concerned.

But it's truly hard for a non-ed'd individual to grasp just HOW scary it all is (recovery, I mean. At first, restriction seems almost like a high, it seems wonderful. Later, there are times when _yes_, you get a little scared. But recovery is still very hard, despite all the risks to your body).

I really believe that someone can be at his or her very worst, and still not realize just HOW close to death they are, and of course – it can occur very suddenly (death. Without warning).

So I can empathize with you very strongly. I'll be thinking of you, and your friend.

**BlackArtemis:** oh good! I tried to recall everything from the books – those slight details that I didn't want to botch - but I actually don't _own_ the books. Unthinkable, I know. :-p

(I borrowed them from a friend a couple years back when I was, ironically, going through the hardest stage of recovery (i.e. weight gain). So I will always credit Harry Potter with keeping me sane and giving me a wonderful fantasy world that I could escape into during that very difficult period of my life!)

**PotionsMistress25, JKH1, CrimsonTears, Yeeww:** Your guys' wish is my command ;)

**BrightFeather:** no, I don't want to torture Harry. (Poor Harry). But he seems to be the most tortured character of the series as it stands – and for some reason, I can see him resorting to SI'ing as a coping mechanism, maladaptive as it is. I don't think it's realistic to assume that the poor kid could grow up with the emotionally abusive Dursley's and not have at least some pretty deep-seated self-esteem issues. And of course, by HBP, he's **lost so much**. No, I feel very much for Harry. He's become my favorite character, as completely unoriginal as that sounds. (Luna and Hermione sort of tie for second place in my books, pun intended, cause I'm lame like that).

**Ddamato:** Where I grew up (at least at several of the high schools I attended anyway) the guys always chucked their backpacks outside of the change rooms - just left them in the corridor for us to trip over while they went about doing their business. LOL It just was this weird quirk that I have seen firsthand. It was this "thing" at my school for a while. Don't ask. I don't understand it either, and apparently – neither does Hermione. ;)

"**[When/ If Push comes to shove"** means when things, essentially, escalate. The idea is that you try to get somebody to do something, and you become more and more forceful – not physically, necessarily (rarely so). Essentially it can refer to having no options…as things get more severe, and your choices become limited. I hope I explained that clearly enough. Expressions are strange things. So often you have a very distinct appreciation for what something means but you still find it hard to explain when queried.

Btw, I'm Canadian, if it helps (as far as being familiar with the term?)

Waffle shirts are very soft shirts, not dissimilar to long john material. Sort of like undershirts… like you might wear on a camping trip, to stay warm perhaps? It's usually a really cozy material. I used to have a bunch of super baggy waffle shirts, and that's all I would wear when I was little. Some fashionista I am, huh? (laughs).

**Kaitlyn-Alyssa:** I'm sorry that you have had to go through any of this. Really sucks, doesn't it? (Sucks being a massive understatement, and my lame attempt at levity). Just remember: giving up isn't an option. And one bad day doesn't mean that all the subsequent days are going to be bad (whether the issue is cutting, or not eating/or disordered eating or ANYTHING else). My mum always said that healing can take place in a moment – the most profound first step can happen in an instant. It might take awhile to see yourself as completely healthy, but in this world, I'm sure we are all struggling with something at SOME point in our lives. Depression is rampant. Keep your chin up, hear?

**BatteredChild**: I'm also quite relieved to see no flames being sent my way (which goes without saying. shuts up)

But I'm readying myself for them all the same. This story doesn't really deal with pleasant topics, and anything semi-controversial could be flamed regardless of whether or not I "know my stuff", you know? But thank you :)

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Now…onwards with part 2. It's a little shorter, but I'm thinking this is going to be a WIP. I'll try to update with a 3rd part relatively soon. :)

Chapter 2: The Only Thing That's Real

I'm supposed to be resting. That was part "of the deal". So I might as well try to find a comfortable position on this blasted cot. I'm not exactly tall for my age, but I'm obviously too tall for this bed, because my legs keep meeting the metal edge.

I want to return to my room. I don't see the point in staying here. Everyone is being ridiculous about this. Nothing has happened. I was in a much worse physical state in second year when I needed to grow new bones in my arm and no one made a fuss about that! In fact, _every _Quidditch injury that I have sustained since first year has been so much worse than a few little cuts. I exhale deeply.

_**Why am I so angry at them?**_

Pomfrey must hear me fidget as she passes by again, as she asks if I would like something to help me sleep.

_**Yes. A new bed, please. One designed for someone over 4 feet.**_

I don't say this, of course. In fact, I don't say anything. I remain mute and give her a tight-lipped smile, and force myself to stop moving every second as if I'm hopped up on amphetamines like a drugged lab rat. She walks away; I look back down at my form.

I'm wearing a different shirt now. It's an ultra soft cotton top, a pale off-white color. Sort of your basic hospital grade apparel, I guess.

I roll the edge up on this new shirt, only to expose an equally redressed arm - covered in wispy gauze. It's a whiter white than the shirt, bleached, and is looped around my arm about six times. But they are still there of course – my cuts. I'm both relieved and surprised that I was allowed to keep them at all. And I'm thankful that Dumbledore hadn't responded with the excessive concern that I had been dreading. He was pretty reasonable, and simply insisted that they be bandaged and cleaned, muttering something to Snape about how they looked infected. So of course Snape foisted me an anti-infection potion, the name of which I don't know. I think it's his behavior, more than mine, which people should find perplexing.

_**Oh no, but I'm the bizarre one, right?**_

Pomfrey was upset about it all, almost angry with the headmaster, which I guess is pretty understandable given that she is a nurse: it's in her nature to heal what she can. More than that: no one wants to see someone else in pain, unless they are sadistic - unless they are sick themselves. I wonder if by extension that means _**I**_ am sick, since I really don't mind inflicting pain on myself. Of course, it's only physical pain, and it does a most impressive job of temporarily deadening my emotions, so overall I'd say it's the lesser of two evils. Maybe I should tell that to Dumbledore, and see what he says. Not really looking forward to bringing 'this' up again, though.

And for some reason Dumbledore seemed to understand my concerns even before I mentioned that I wanted to keep my cuts, anyway. It's like he _**knew**_. Knew what I was thinking. I had to keep reminding myself that he is not actually telepathic. I guess he felt that it was better to leave old scars on my body than to have me re-injure in the future.

---

I wake up abruptly. Some noise – some commotion – has roused me from my light sleep. I feel hot, and sticky, and realize I've soaked my flimsy, poor-excuse-for-a-shirt through with sweat.

I hear it again – voices, people talking. I strain to hear a little better.

Two voices, both female. One young and firm, the other older and equally firm: Hermione and Pomfrey. It took a moment for me to get my bearings.

_**Great. Just great.**_

"Well I don't think I'm being unreasonable _at all_! He's one of my best friends! And unless he requested not to see **me**, I don't understand why I can't see him. It's not like I'm going to make anything worse, am I?"

_**Oh no.**_

_**This is just swell.**_

I strain to make out the mediwitch's reply. It's too faint. Hermione's reply, however, is not.

"No, Madame Pomfrey. I'm not asking you to wake him up – if he is, in fact, actually sleeping." She knows me too well. I smirk. But then my smile fades. I can hear the exasperation in her voice. She _always_ worries whenever Ron or I get hurt – even if it's just something minor, like getting scuffed up playing Quidditch. I guess it's a girl thing. And Hermione is…Hermione. Perfectionist to the Nth degree. If she can improve something, she always goes out of her way to do so. This extends to how she treats her relationships.

I suspect that she's near the infirmary entrance and I could probably just call her over from here, so I try.

I'm surprised with how raspy my voice is; it takes me a moment before I put two and two together and realize that it's actually sore from crying. I don't think I've ever had that happen to me before. But I haven't really cried like that in a long time. If ever.

The Dursley's never put up with whining. That would only lead to more smacking, or belting, and so you learn very quickly to shut up and push your anger or upset away until you were alone. When you can properly deal with it all – by yourself – then you can do what you want. Of course, I never felt like crying by that point. I was usually too drained by it all. No, I don't cry. Or at least – I didn't before. It wasn't something I did, certainly not in the open. Not until today, and that realization isn't helping my mood very much since Snape – in all his greasy glory – just _had_ to be present during my brief departure from sanity. That's the way things plays out for me.

I am pulled from my thoughts when I hear Hermione begin to argue with Pomfrey again, so I speak a little louder this time.

"It's okay, Madame Pomfrey. I'm awake. I, I can talk to her. I'm up. Feeling much better, see?"

The mediwitch exhales sharply, annoyed with whom I'm not sure. She mutters something about hospital wings and libraries in the same breath, before allowing Hermione to come over.

"Harry. Are you okay? What happened? No one knew anything, except for Snape – I think. He said you were, what was the word…"indisposed", in that slimy voice of his…"

I try not to grin. It wouldn't be appropriate. But yeah. That does sound like Snape.

"… he didn't tell me anything more. I just assumed it meant you were sick or something, cause you weren't you know – in detention."

But I smile at that.

"How did YOU know I wasn't in detention, huh?" I start to chuckle, and then wince. My lungs feel tight. A band of tightness runs through my chest and extends to my back. The last time I had a chest this tight, I had pneumonia.

_**Merlin – is that all from crying?**_

Hermione mock glares in response and continues right on as if I hadn't spoken.

"I don't think it's nosy to be concerned for your best friend, do you? I mean…no one was saying anything. What was I supposed to do?"

"Is that what Snape said? That you were being nosy?"

"Yeah – something along those lines", a pause, "well – you know how he feels about me. Anyway, seriously, stop hedging: why aren't you in class?"

If that's not a point blank question, I don't know what is.

I shrug, and decide to go with a half-truth.

"I guess you guys were right. You know…about needing to take a little better care of myself and everything..." My voice dies out at the end. I didn't really want to admit that.

Hermione studies me for a second, and I see a flicker of some emotion play across her features - relief, perhaps? She eyes me for a second more, putting the pieces together.

"So you passed out? Is that basically what happened?" her face unreadable.

I shrug because, yeah, that _is_ basically what happened - and then some.

But Hermione doesn't need to know all the details. She has enough to worry about without me adding stress to her life. It's not lying exactly. I'm just omitting certain facts. And she's right – I passed out because I went for a run, and haven't eaten enough lately. Quite stupid, really. Part of me understands that, but another part of me…

"So how did Snape get involved in all of this anyway?"

"Well – take a chance and guess who actually found me? Out on the Quidditch field at, I dunno, 5.30 or something in the morning."

Hermione grimaces empathically, which I appreciate, and buries her face in her hands.

"Jeesh Harry. You really have the worst luck sometimes, don't you? Of all people to be out then – it had to be him? What are the odds of that happening anyway?! I'd expect, you know, a groundskeeper or something to maybe find you outside that early – but not a teacher. So were you, you know, actually _unconscious_ when Snape found you? Cause I think I'd die!"

_**Thanks Hermione. That makes me feel less mortified.**_

"No, but I was still really dizzy and I had just gotten sick not two minutes before he came across me."

"Got sick? You mean you threw up?" she looks a little nervous at that, "Harry, I've told you so often though – I mean, you really should listen to me sometimes. I know you say that you really don't feel all that hungry lately, but regardless – you just can't…"

I don't want to have this conversation. So I cut her off.

"I obviously need to drink more water before I go for runs too… I mean, that's probably part of it."

Pomfrey approaches at my remark as if reminded of my need for fluids, glass in hand. I wonder whether or not she has been listening in on our entire conversation. I sure hope not. The professors haven't said anything about my lack of interest in meals lately. And I look more or less like I always have; the slight weight loss I hide under baggy robes and clothing anyway.

So my expression must be one of anxiety. I want to know what's she handing me. I certainly don't need anymore sleep today.

"It's a nutrient potion, dear. Nothing more – you need it, so drink it all up. I don't want one drop left."

I take it, and drink it slowly, as if I expect something to jump out from the cup and nip me.

It tastes all right: sort of sweet, as if honey has been mixed in – but not exactly bad. Medicinal tasting of course, almost like Vicks cough drops melted down and stirred into apple juice. An odd combination of flavors, but not entirely revolting. I can feel myself grimacing as sip it though, and I try not to obsess about the contents. I'm already feeling annoyed with myself as today was supposed to be a cleansing day. Water only.

_**And now I have gone and consumed something with probably a ton of sugar, just wrecking my body…**_

"Well, how does it taste?" Hermione queries.

"It's okay. Do you want to try some?" I offer Hermione the goblet but she just shakes her head.

"That's yours for a reason, Harry" her voice has turned serious again, surprise-surprise.

She picks at a pill on her sweater, pulls it off, and straightens her robe before adding, "Do you know if you'll be back to class this afternoon? Because I can get your assignments and everything for you. I did for your morning classes…"

There is a moment of silence will I finish off the liquid.

"Oh yeah, and get this – speaking of Snape, well, he says that when you come back you'll be teamed up with me from now on. Sort of strange, don't you think? Considering we usually rotate? I was supposed to work with Neville tomorrow, and now he's probably going to be paired with Malfoy or something."

I try not to squirm, and clarify something.

"Did he say why he's changing everything around?"

Hermione shrugs. "Well, no – not _really_. He said that you were going to be responsible for measuring and sampling and recording our results from now on, and that I was going to do the root work – you know… the grinding, and cutting of materials and everything like that? He said that this was to be "my job" from here on out. I think his exact words were, _"the hands on stuff is going to be your focus, Miss Granger"_. Yeah. Evidentially, he thinks you need to improve on your measurements and recordings. But you can ask him why tomorrow if you want."

Oh no, I really don't need to ask him _why_. Part of me is surprised he kept everything under wraps. He had the perfect opportunity to mortify me, and he didn't take it. It's…mystifying.

Equally perplexing: I'm just surprised he's making this request at all. Before today, before this morning, I would have thought Snape would have been the one _handing_ me a knife if he thought I'd use it to carve up my skin. I don't know why he's even involved – why he cares at all. He hates me with a passion. He has since I was 11, and first came to Hogwarts.

Hermione is still talking.

"…of course, maybe it's because I usually do the measurements, do you think that's it? But it's still weird – I mean, why should he care if you improve in Potions? He's only going to have you back next year if you ace the N.E.W.T's."

I don't know what to say to any of that, so I just try to catch Madame Pomfrey's attention. I ask her if she'll let me attend my afternoon classes.

"If you think you feel well enough, Mr. Potter. But I do not want you exhausting yourself out on the Quidditch field today. Do we have a deal?"

Sure. Whatever. It's not as if I haven't already missed a bunch of practice sessions this season. It's not as if I don't need to massively catch up. But I really want out of here, so I nod dutifully.

Pointing to the issued shirt, "I'll get this back to the infirmary later? Is that alright?"

I'm not about to change in front of them. No way. And I don't even know where my other shirt is, come to think of it. I'll want that back – Sirius bought it for me the same day that I got the runners, actually. It better be safe.

Pomfrey acquiesces. "Alright. But I'll be checking in on you from time to time…don't think that I won't. You are best to be taking care of yourself now."

I roll back the percale sheet and look around for my runners. Hermione finds them first, neatly tucked under the cot. I can't even remember taking them off. Strange. This whole damn day has just been a blur of images and feelings. It's almost as if I've been trapped in a waking dream.

Hermione holds up my shoes carefully so as to not get mud on her hands. She then starts to take off her small black robe and hands it over to me, before readjusting the golden and red Gryffindor tie and smoothing her blouse.

I must be looking at her dumbly because she makes gestures to indicate that I should put it on.

"It'll fit you Harry – _now more than ever_."

I let the comment pass, as if I didn't notice or pick up her underlying accusation.

She seems almost annoyed right then – a slight shift in mood that occurs so quickly that it has become one of her notable, defining features. Ron comments on it all the time, and tries to drive her mad by insinuating that it's PMS or some such nonsense. But it's not likely anything of the sort when she is like that chronically.

Personally, I think it's more the fact that Hermione catches on to things very quickly, and if you don't keep up – for whatever reason – she starts to get bored and restless. I've shared my theory with Ron, but he still harps on her for being a "brooding girl" during "certain times" just to rile her up.

She's still holding the robe out for me.

"I can head back to my room Mione. I have my own robes too, ya know. Not like I plan on living in this ugly thing all day", I point to the white shirt.

"Oh right. _SURE. _Are you sure you only fainted, Harry? Because it seems _**to me**_ like you maybe hit your head on the way down. **Think about it:** it's almost lunchtime. That means students meandering around. Do you want to run into a bunch of nosy Slytherins making their way to the great hall while you're still decked out in that awful hospital attire? Be serious."

She makes a good point. I really should pay attention to her more often.

I only wish her voice was louder than the one inside of me. It would make everything a lot simpler.


	3. Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own

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**Yeeww** – I'll answer any questions that you have to the best of my ability. Feel free to send me a PM if you'd like. :)

My problems started rather abruptly - the whole progression from physically healthy to sick happened within the course of two to three months.

I displayed a lot of the classic warning signs early on in my life (such as perfectionistic features, a history of compulsive and obsessive behaviors, and ways of coping that were self-harmful. In fact, I began self injuring (cutting and burning) when I was 11 – which was years before I developed an ed. I bring it up only because _many_ ed'd individuals have a history of self injury too.)

Also, although it sounds completely cliché to say this, I will add that I've always been soothed by order and routine to a _very strong_ degree (I was the classic "hypersensitive" kid who worried about everything).

It is theorized that people who develop ed's (esp. those of a restrictive, rather than binge/purge nature) are biologically predisposed to generate elevated serotonin levels. (Excess serotonin production, btw, generates anxiety and obsessive thoughts. Interestingly enough – starvation actually _decreases_ the amount of serotonin produced. Therefore, if a person has a brain imbalance of this nature, starvation becomes a form of self-medication: it normalizes the amount of serotonin that is produced in their body, limiting their feelings of profound anxiety).

If you are interested in reading up on anorexia, you may want to check out Marya Hornbacher's memoir, _Wasted._ It's an extremely detailed account of what life is like for someone with both bulimia and anorexia (the author vacillated between the two from the age of 9). The book gives that "inner look" at the thought processes at work for someone with an ed. Also, the website somethingfishy (dot) org is wonderful and extremely comprehensive – one of my favorites for sure! There is even a support board for the friends and family of ed sufferers.

**PotionsMistress25**: thanks! I like Hermione quite a bit. I think she's a wonderfully _strong_ female character, and I'm really drawn to the Harry/Hermione friendship, specifically.

**BrightFeather:** I actually did an online search and found this story (as it wasn't on this site) - thanks to your recommendation! The story was painful to read. :( But very well done.

**Ddamato:** I'm not sure if the expression is used more in Canada than in other places where English is the predominant language. I just grew up hearing it from my mum all the time (who happened to be raised in England btw. My grandmother, who lived in England for many years, never lost her accent and was a complete Anglophile until the very end).

Also, Nth degree isn't a type-o. :) If you do something, for example, to the "nth degree" it basically means that you do it to an extreme end (the UTMOST end).

"Pilling" as used in the story is an intransitive verb. It refers to the small matting you find on certain materials – such as wool sweaters, some blankets etc. So when a sweater "pills" – it means that the material has become covered with tiny, little knots/matting (often from age, or use). Old cotton materials sometimes pill too. Silk - not so readily given the overall texture (I have seen tiny pills on very old, degraded silk though). Some people also speak of each little knot itself as a pill, and the actual process of matting – is called pilling.

**Anitajane:** :(

**Breannatala, Pip 3:** thank you. :)

**ScorpioGirl:** I'd like to see this story through to at least the point where Harry is _starting to get better_. But the whole process of recovery is, in reality, very convoluted and can take years. For some people, it's also something they'll have to guard against for life. So it might take some time before Harry seems to be getting better, but I'd rather be realistic and end it with him better, but not 100 percent, rather than rush his recovery and have his experience not reflect reality. (Sounds funny to say that about a character who is a Wizard! **Lol**)

**MandyWinchester:** I'm sorry to hear this. **Hugs **(As an aside – did you choose your user name, Winchester, because you happen to be a _Supernatural_ fan as well? Cause that would be eerie – I love that show too! I always wanted to have a sensitive brother like Sam).

**A/N:** Onwards with Chapter 3. I've just made myself a big, homemade iced-latte (for 1/10th the price of the coffee-bar kind, _so there_ Starbucks! Ha!) and am now all geared up and ready to write:D Again, I will add that I haven't read any of the books for a few years now, so if I screw up on any details, please excuse me!

**WARNING:** _I should let everyone know that this chapter is a little more graphic than previous chapters (describes in greater detail Harry's self-abusive practices). Read at your own discretion. _

**Chapter 3** - The Hand that Feeds

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Several days have passed since _the Snape incident _occurred, as I now refer to it. I've managed to avoid any 'slip-ups' in that time, which sort of surprises me. Of course, maybe it's really not too surprising given the fact that three of my professors (not to mention the head nurse) are keeping tabs on me. That might have just a _little something_ to do with my resolve to stop.

But for now, I've got to be careful. I have to look as if I'm working at "getting better". Really, I'm just biding my time. I can feel the need to just make a small incision well up in my body with greater intensity as the days pass on, and it's starting to become uncomfortable to ignore. Is it possible that my body has actually become _addicted to pain?_

While some people have a glass of warm milk and honey before bed, I simply crave a razor blade. It does a similar job of readying me for sleep. I can feel all the turmoil and tension seep out of my body. Especially when I make a mark in the shower because it flows from my arm and courses in diluted streams down my chest and legs before swirling away from me. It feels purifying. As if I am getting rid of contaminated blood. And it is my ritual. I want it back.

After all, it's my body. As long as I'm not doing anything that hurts anyone else, how can they really order me to stop? It's _my _body and it's _my_ life.

All the same, I don't want to rock the boat right now. I don't like receiving "pity attention". I don't NEED their concern, and I don't want it.

Frankly, their concern angers me. Because where were they after Sirius died? Where were they after my Godfather was murdered? Where was the support _then?_

I remember the morning after Sirius was killed. When I had woken up – as if I was waking up from a nightmare.

For a moment I had forgotten that he _had_ died; when I remembered that he was gone I felt as if shards of glass had imbedded themselves into my heart. I swear there was physical pain.

But what did Dumbledore do? _He sent me back to my god forsaken Uncle._

_**Sent me back to Uncle Vernon…**_

I feel bombarded with ugly images remembering him again, so I press my arm against the table, applying pressure to the semi-healed cuts until they hurt and I feel a little more in control.

_**What I need to do now is be practical…**_

Part of me wonders what will happen if I were to make another mark, and they caught me. What then? Detention wouldn't make much sense. It wouldn't really be fair, would it?

_**Would they suspend me? **_

I'm not sure. I don't think so. But Madame Pomfrey has checked up on me four times in the last week alone and there is this tension in the air now. Even around Dumbledore, and that hurts. As if they view me as this _risk_…deep down. They try to be low-key about it, which I appreciate, but during our last little check up, Madame Pomfrey _did_ mention that she'd like to see me once a week from now on (when I had asked _"for_ _how long?"_ her eyes changed, and she seemed feline-like, penetrating. Suspicious.)

I could have kicked myself. Could I have been much more stupid?

_**Ask when she WON'T demand to keep seeing you. That doesn't seem suspicious at all, you moron…**_

Her response was less than ideal, too. She basically said she wanted to check up on me as long as she thought was necessary, for the remainder of my stay at Hogwarts – if "need be".

_**I don't think so. There is no way I'll last that long…**_

So here I am now, thinking up alternatives to this little predicament when I hear a disgruntled voice, loud – exasperated. I must have drifted again…

"Mr. Potter. _**Pay attention**_."

_**Shit. **_

I_ hadn't _been paying attention to Snape's lecture, and his voice reflected anger over this fact before he turned back to resume teaching.

I look over at Hermione, and try to see what she is working on. At the moment some root tendrils lay out before us on our desk. The plants look abnormally thick and hard to cut, but Hermione has managed to split them open with a very sharp Potions-grade knife. Parts of the root have been sectioned, and stained, and I wonder if we are going to be studying them in greater detail – with a microscope – like we would do at a Muggle school. It doesn't seem like a typical Potions assignment. More like something we would do in Herbology class, maybe.

My eyes have now fixated on the red and beautiful liquid that is weeping from the cuts in the plant. The sap pools in small, discrete areas of our table and I can't help but feel triggered by the sight.

I find myself biting the inside of my cheek - hard - and drawing blood. I manage to do it all very subtlety; no one else is the wiser.

Immediately, I feel Snape, the classroom, the project – all of it - become secondary to the new calm that is rushing through my system, as I revel in the slight pain. I feel the old familiar tingle in my belly, the surge of something good.

Snape, however, seems aware that I really have continued to drift, and so has gone from merely impatient to irate. He has now walked over to the front of our desk and is trying to freeze me with one of his 'withering glares' (the one I have termed the _Neville-Special_. It is a particularly foul look - intended to broadcast to the world Snape considers you to be a most inept and abominable student!)

It may have worked on me as a first year, but I just don't care enough about anything anymore. Right now the throbbing in my mouth is keeping me blissfully distracted. Snape can glare at me until the cows come home, to use the Muggle phrase.

Hermione keeps giving me these shifty glances, though. I know she is a little curious as to my complete lackadaisical attitude. But she keeps her head down, and continues to sketch the roots in our log journal. I guess she figures she might as well not add to Snape's anger.

I feel the edge of her foot hit my shoe and she taps a couple times with her Mary Jane's against my leg; an insistent tapping…like a reprimand, or a plea.

I turn to ask her what is the matter, when Snape seems to explode.

"Potter! I have had it with your…"

_**A rant. **_

_**Perfect. **_

_**This is JUST how I like to start my Monday mornings!**_

Although Snape soon stops speaking. I look up.

"You were saying, sir?"

_**That sounded almost snotty. Not what I was going for…**_

"Potter", he begins again, "Go to the washroom and clean yourself up."

Hermione's head snaps up at that comment – her expression confused before she turns to me. I hear her gasp.

"Harry – your mouth…it's bleeding! _What happened?_"

I touch a finger to my lips and pull it back for examination.

My hand is covered with warm stickiness. I guess my mouth is still bleeding a fair bit. I must have chomped down on my cheek harder than I had realized.

I pretend to be baffled by it all – as if I am unsure of how I came to be injured.

_**But if anyone has this figured out, it's Snape. He's not stupid…**_

One look let's me know that he has pieced everything together.

When he speaks, his voice is laced with an underlying reprimand.

"You can congratulate yourself for the loss of even more house points than is typical for your stupidity, Potter! I think 100 points off will act as an appropriate deterrent – do you agree? Or should I make it 200?"

I hear Hermione stifle her retort - choke down her protest. 100 points is a lot. Snape has never taken off more than _50 points_ at a time for any particular Gryffindorian transgression, and usually it is less – 20, or 30.

I can also hear the Slytherins trying not to laugh, amused with the entire situation.

Snape is still watching me – his Potions lesson relegated to a depreciated standing. Part of me knows that he took off so many points because I had…injured. It was his way of punishing me for it. It was his way of showing his displeasure.

Again, he confuses me. I was even borderline rude with him – and he still kept quiet about my ritual, my need.

The realization leaves me feeling strangely empowered. Dumbledore must have something to do with Snape's reticence. If that's so, I'm basically home free. I can do what I like, so long as I'm smart enough to not outright expose myself in front of my peers.

I'm sure my grin conveys this newfound understanding to Snape, who is now looking at me with unease, as if I'm some poorly constructed Potion that is about to boil over…

I laugh at that thought. I laugh – out loud - and I feel Hermione actually kick me with her shoe. _No confusion about what she means this time._

_**Get a grip, Potter. Before you cost Gryffindor more points.**_

Hermione, to be fair, has every reason to be irritated with me.

I look down at the oozing blood-like mass of liquid before me, and am soon lost in serious thoughts. Even if I don't care at all about my schooling right now, I'm not so selfish as to disregard my fellow Gryffindors. I actually feel a little guilty now, lost in retrospect. Hermione will have to answer hard questions for the rest of the day just to make up for my stupidity.

I try to follow along for the rest of the session, but I've already pushed my luck today and am not surprised when Snape barks at me before I can leave.

"Go clean yourself up, Potter. You look a mess." He spits the words out.

I don't need to be _asked_ to leave twice. I don't want to be here anyway, and so I pack up my notebook and Potions text in record time, before high tailing it out of the dungeon classroom.

I have no intentions of heading off to Transfigurations.

I want a shower.

------------------

The shower room is empty, as it always is during this time of day. I change just outside the furthest stall from the doorway, wrapping my red and gold towel around my body tightly on the off chance someone comes in. Quickly surveying my options, I settle on the most removed stall. Not that it makes much difference. I just hope it's a smidgen cleaner than some of the other ones.

I hide my satchel in the next closest stall to the one I have chosen for myself – having learned my lesson about leaving my possessions in plain sight.

Before I stash my bag away, I root around and retrieve my desired toiletries: a bottle of shower gel, a smaller bottle of shampoo in a squeeze tube and my pencil case. I then lock the stall door and fling my towel over the clothing hook, before turning on the spray.

Getting business out of the way first, I wash my hair and soap up, scrubbing vigorously until my skin feels almost bruised. I rinse off, turn off the stream and towel off.

That's part one.

Next, and only after establishing that the stall door is, in fact, securely locked do I open the pencil case.

I remove a small, silver box opener and look at it in the dim light. I've been careful not to let this one get rusted, and as such it still looks sharp and attractive.

I give my body a cursory look, quickly deciding on a new site for my ritual.

Arms are out of the question, even though they are my favorite sites. But they are areas likely to be seen while changing, and Pomfrey is still checking anyway. I decide calves are out as well because all I would need to do is hurt my ankle playing Quidditch, and then I'd be a world of trouble with Dumbledore, who has already shown excessive lenience and trust.

I finally decide on my upper thighs – high enough so that my underwear will cover the marks at all times. That they aren't going to be discovered again. For some reason, I'm drawn to my right side this time, and so flex my right thigh outwards looking for the perfect spot. When I'm ready, I make my first cut - a small one to test the area. See if it feels okay.

And it does. Or at least it will suffice. While it doesn't seem quite as ideal as my left arm, it's better than nothing. The feeling this time around, after not having done this for weeks, is all the more renewed and calming. I feel so much better now – after just one little mark.

The next slice is made with greater enthusiasm - perhaps too much – because the skin immediately begins to pull away on each side of the wound.

A nanosecond later, blood gushes to the surface, fills the deep wound, and then cascades over the incision, trailing crimson down my leg. It continues to bleed profusely, which surprises me. This must be my deepest cut thus far, and I find it odd that I didn't even feel as if I were applying excessive pressure.

I look at the blade then, look at my gushing wound, and decide to stop for now. I wipe the box opener edge against my towel, allowing the blood to plume into the red of the material itself, as it will act as camouflage. I then shower again, my body prickled with goose bumps from standing around wet in the cold air for these last few minutes.

The length of my shower this time around is prolonged, mainly because I need to wait until the bleeding subsides a little bit – which seems to take a ridiculous amount of time, before it slows. I turn off the jet of water, not wanting to keep aggravating the tender flesh, and dry myself off for a second time.

When I am acceptably dry, I open up my pack, locate a couple thick muggle bandages, and quickly tape up the cut. When I'm satisfied with my work, I change back into my outfit, and exit the stall.

Toweling my hair, I give myself a quick once over in the mirror, taking note of my unusual pallor.

-----------

The library feels like the safest place in the world right now. It's currently empty, and the air smells like paper and binding glue and the warm smell of leather polish. I'm starting to understand what Hermione sees in this place.

Especially right now as no one is present, aside from Madame Pince. And since I managed to sneak in before the lunch rush, she didn't notice my entrance. So for all intents and purposes, I am alone.

I made my way to the far edge of the massive room, somewhat concealed from the librarians section by the book aisles. Pedestal desks and credenzas are lined up along one wall underneath the arched windows, chairs placed at each desk for students looking for a quiet place to study.

If you bypass this area and walk to the far side of the library, there is a section that is sheltered by magnificent ficcus trees and ferns - all tenderly cared for by the best Herbology students.

It's unbelievably scenic back here… more relaxed than the previous study section. The light is softer and there are cozy, ottoman-like chairs that have been pushed together to form one large sitting area. It's so big that you can stretch out on it, like a bed. I take advantage of this construction, amazed by how comfortable it feels, before I tug on my satchel, locate my Quidditch book, and begin to read.

Very soon, I am totally lost in the story of Britton Bux who was a star seeker for the South Essex Quidditch team. However, I soon realize that I'm starting to feel sleepy.

I let my entire body go limp against the chairs, and I feel almost as if I could sleep right here, especially when I consider that students probably won't be entering this area until after their final class today.

So I allow myself to close my eyes and catnap. It wouldn't hurt. I certainly need more sleep.

I don't know how much time has passed before I waken to the sound of a thousand feet stomping the halls.

_**The third class of the day must have just recessed…it must be lunchtime now…**_

Somewhat guiltily, I recall that I had promised Hermione that I'd have lunch with her and Ron today. _"For sure",_ I had said. _"Save me a seat."_

For a moment I debate leaving the warm comfort of my new makeshift bed. Not only that, but if I go the Great Hall _now_ there is the very strong possibility that I'm going to run into either Snape or McGonagall – and I don't really welcome the idea of seeing my Potions professor right now, nor my head of house (considering I just skipped her class as well).

_**What am I even doing here, skipping? What is wrong with me?!**_

Though I don't feel like seeing anyone right now, I also know that the longer I avoid people the harder it is going to be for me to return to class.

Begrudgingly, I summon my courage, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and rise from my cushioned area. Upon doing so I immediately feel a wetness running down the length of my leg.

_**What?**_

I stop and take a look at why I should possibly feel _wet_. Nothing good comes to mind.

And then I realize that the wetness is from blood.

Not only that, but I chose to wear navy blue pants today with a white school shirt tucked in at the waist. I'm not surprised that my shirt is drenched scarlet as soon as I push my robes to one side and untuck the shirt.

What's worse is that from about two inches below my waist to half way down my right leg – my pants are stained a reddish brown. The wound must have been a lot deeper than I had previously imagined, because it had kept on bleeding right through the bandages.

All in all, there is too much blood to really be covered with a glamour spell. Not to mention the fact that I feel sticky and dirty, and I'm starting to feel nauseous on top of it.

_**I can't go to the Great Hall looking like this! Merlin! All I need to do is shift in my seat and people are going to see this…mess.**_

I come to the conclusion that it makes more sense to wait until the bulk of the students have gone for their lunch, and then I can simply sneak back to my room and get a change of clothes.

I don't have any real choice now. I'm definitely not spending the rest of the day stuck in class in these clothes.

When, at last, the noise of the stampeding kids has diminished, I make my way to the edge of the book stacks and look again for Madame Pince. When I can't locate her after a few minutes of searching, I realize that she has already left for her lunch. After all, professors and staff are expected to be punctual and set an example for all students.

I backtrack all the way to the Gryffindors dormitories. Turning left, the path to the boy's section, I ascend the stairs, taking them two at a time as the faster I move, the less likely I am to get caught.

At last, I reach the comfort of my room. Well – _our_ room. It seems I've shared the same large space with Ron, Seamus and Neville for forever.

I look around fondly, at the only space that has ever felt truly safe to me aside from the burrow.

Ron and Seamus are both pretty messy and so their beds are covered with, well, anything that they have failed to put away recently. Which is a lot. Especially in Ron's case - he still has left over candy on his comforter. I pick up a sun-warmed packet of chocolate chews from his bed (a few pieces of chocolate have already melted onto his sheets) and deposit the near empty box into his waste bin.

I then walk over to my area of the room and take in my picture wall – which is something that I started on last year. Neville helped, as he knew a spell that could magically affix all the pictures to the wall, yet would require no glue, and would allow you to move the images around easily as if they were magnetized.

The two of us put up all sorts of things – from clippings of _The Quibbler_ that we found particularly amusing, to old wizarding cards from chocolate frogs.

But without a doubt, the bulk of the images are photos of my friends.

There are photos of myself and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team over a span of about five years. Formal shots, and then complete candids – such as the one of Oliver and Angelina holding me up from under the arms and sort of swinging me into the air while I scrambled to get down. I laugh whenever I see that photo now, but I guess it was easy to do that back then, as I was only 11, considerably smaller - a good head shorter and much thinner, for starters.

Then there are a couple bittersweet ones from last year, featuring Ginny as seeker when she replaced me in the games during the era-of-Umbridge. There is one of Ginny showing off her so-called "game face" that I had loved for the longest time, until I had learned that she had been hit in the side by a bludger and had actually been in a bit of pain when the shot was taken. So of course, I can't look at it quite the same way, knowing that she had been in pain.

Then there are photos of Ron, Hermione and me sitting around a table at _The Boar's Head_ in Hogsmeade, drinking butterbeers and eating too much candy. There is an especially poignant shot of Hagrid feeding Buckbeak too. And then there are a couple shots of Neville tending his plants with the most intense look on his face, and one shot of him reading a book on botany.

Finally, there are several shots from my first year: Ron and me playing Wizard's chess in the commons room, Fred and George grinning like maniacs (obviously up to no good), Ron and I wearing matching sweaters, Hermione in a jumper and red and green stripped shirt – reading a Christmas card that Ron had made for her.

My favorite one, however, is of Hermione giving me a bear hug. Ron had snapped the shot with, of all things, a muggle disposable camera. It was taken during the spring – when everything had been budding, waking up and coming to life. I remember that the area we had been walking around had smelled like honeysuckle, and have ever since associated honeysuckle with being happy.

Without a doubt, it had been the first time that I had ever been hugged – at least the first time that I could remember (as I don't remember my parents very well).

Anyway, Ron had said something to upset Hermione that day – so that she would become irritable. He had actually wanted to take a photo that he felt, and I quote, "shows how mental she can get!"

Of course, we had been studying for our first exams at Hogwarts then, and Hermione had been her typical, worried self. Ron thought that it would be brilliant if he could get a shot of her when she was that intense. So he had attempted to bug her until she just about cracked, and it worked – but too well, and at one point he nearly reduced her to tears with a few callous comments.

Perhaps it was because I knew what it felt like to be teased that I stepped in. I can't recall what I said exactly, but Hermione obviously found it sweet, or something like that - because the next minute I found her hugging the life out of me. Ron, of course, took a shot of that moment instead, and for the next year he teased the two of us about our _'not-so-secret romance'_.

I smirk when I think of his reaction and give the photo wall one last glance before I make my way over to my bed and crouch down so that I can get my clothes trunk. Flipping it open, I look for a new pair of pants and top. I finally locate an acceptable pair of charcoal slacks and a long sleeved gray top.

_**That'll have to do for now…**_

I turn around, and am about to get changed, when the door to our room swings open.

"There you are! Hermione sent me to find you. What are you trying to do, huh? Drive her mental? Come on!"

Trying to look contrite, I exhale. "Look, I know. I was just about to come down. So just let her know I'll be there in about 5 minutes, okay?"

Ron gives me an _I-don't-think-so _look.

"Come on Ron – _give me a break!_ I'm not going to ditch you guys again. I gave my word to Hermione. I'm just…late…getting to lunch."

"Harry – that's another thing. Hermione totally covered for you with McGonagall. And if I come back empty handed, well…"

_**Oh boy… Now I've dragged my friends into my mess.**_

Not only that! I cost Gryffindor 100 points for no good reason, was insolent to Snape at the risk of costing us _another_ 100, ditched my morning classes, and put one of my best pals in an awkward position with our head of house.

"Look…I'm going to be RIGHT down. I promise. I…I need to change…"

He smirks at that, his tone teasing. "You don't have to look _pretty_ for us you know! Just hurry up. Pick something…"

Usually we are all pretty comfortable changing around each other. It has never been a big deal. We give each other basic privacy, but I know right now that I'm acting nervous and secretive, and it's not as if I was ever the overly modest type.

Still, I don't have much choice. I can't very well change out of blood stained pants and a scarlet streaked top without having Ron flip. So I maneuver my body behind the cloth partition of my four-poster bed, which is conveniently acting like a screen right now.

"Come on…let's get this show on the road, Harry! Lunch time is already half over…" I can hear the whine in his voice. Ron hates missing meals.

Ignoring him, I manage to extricate myself from my clothes in record time, and grimace when I catch sight of my leg now coated with brown, dried blood. It dried so thickly that it almost looks like a savage burn - very unclean, unsanitary.

_**I need another shower.**_

I can feel myself getting stressed with the knowledge that my whole lower half is crusty with blood. I'm mad with the whole situation, and at myself too, partly - for generating this problem in the first place.

Ron's still lingering around, and his voice cuts into my self-deprecating thoughts.

"Hey! What happened to my cocoa bombs?! I swear I left them on my bed!"

_**Yup, he's definitely hungry.**_

I use his distraction to my advantage, and manage to get completely changed into the new outfit while he straightens out his blanket, looking for the lost candy amongst the crevices of the material.

"Found a few of 'em – but they are kinda stuck to my sheets. Sorta melty…"

_**Ugh. That's an appetizing thought.**_

--------------

Ron and I make our way into the Great Hall carefully, so as to not draw attention to ourselves. Although, to be honest, our care is probably all for naught as there are hundreds of students all talking, laughing, eating, fooling around and making noise. Especially now that the first half of the lunch hour has passed, and many of the professors have already finished eating.

Glancing over at the staff tables, I try to see who is still in attendance. Hagrid is there – eating some reddish food with gusto between sips from his goblet. Flitwick, too. And Remus – who for a moment catches my eye, gives me a slight nod and an even slighter smile before being asked something by another teacher, turning away.

But that's about it. No McGonagall, who is likely a little angry with me right now for skipping. However, the real person I wish to avoid is gone – there is no Snape.

I begin to relax, keeping in pace with Ron as we amble over to a section for 5th through 7th year Gryffindor students. I take my seat across from Hermione, who gives me a small smile as I sit down. She doesn't seem angry with me, thank goodness.

Ron sits down too and eyeballs his meal options, before scooping a generous mound of beef stroganoff onto his plate.

He offers me the serving spoon, and I decline. I'm not eating this mishmash of foods – browned meat all entangled amongst thick egg noodles and gravy, coating the whole concoction – a thick, rich fluid. It looks like old, clotted blood.

_**How could I have eaten this stuff before?**_

I continue to stare at the food on the tables, my gaze coming to rest on a ham hock, the pink flesh sliced cleanly through with a very sharp knife. I get a mental image of my belly being a graveyard – housing putrescence and death. I push the tray of ham far off to the other side of the table not wanting to see or smell it.

_**No, no. I don't want anything like that…**_

No meat.

I begin to look for other options, displeased with the remaining alternatives.

_**Where are the fruits and vegetables?**_

I then notice a serving tray containing sweet potatoes and onions, and I think I've found something that I can deal with but then I notice that all the vegetables are glistening in the light of the room.

_**Good Merlin! Why does everything on this table have to be swimming in butter?**_

Ron must see the displeasure of my face, as he has put back the serving spoon, and is eating quietly just like Hermione. I know what they are thinking. But I'm really not trying to be difficult.

"Guys…I'm not trying to be a pain. I just don't want any meat or anything today."

I can see Hermione bite her lip slightly, a worried look on her face before she continues eating her grilled cheese sandwich. She probably just thinks I'm making any excuse that I can get away with. And that's not it.

Ginny, however, responds to my comment.

"Do you want some of this stuff, Harry? It's this new vegetarian dish that the house elves made, and it's actually really good. Even Hagrid said he liked it. And there is just a little left."

She gestures to a large, blue casserole dish that is filled with what looks like a mixture of red beans, tomatoes and rice.

_**Ok. Beans. Rice. Nothing drenched in butter, either… **_

_**This looks okay.**_

_**I can do this…**_

I take a deep breath. The meal doesn't look too complicated. Beans and rice. Just beans and rice.

_**Just try a little bit. Just a few bites…**_

_**For them…**_

I give Ginny a soft _thank you_ as she hands me the container. I help myself to a small portion of the dish. It doesn't have the same salty smell that the other dishes have had, and that makes me feel slightly better.

After I take a few tablespoons worth of this bean-and-rice mix, I spread the food out on my plate and grab the bowl of fruit salad, taking a little of that, too. I can actually feel my mouth watering as I look at the cut up assortment of green apples, grapefruit and oranges segments, green and red grapes.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Ron start to relax and before long he and Hermione are arguing about something (surprise) while Ginny returns to reading an article from_ The Quibbler _- borrowed from Luna, obviously.

I half listen to Hermione and Ron as they continue to argue about the merits, or lack thereof, of muggle video games and poke at my food with a bronze fork, stabbing a few kidney beans before taking a tentative bite.

Within a few moments of eating, I start to feel a little uncomfortable.

Physically, that is. My stomach hurts. It feels unnaturally swollen and bloated.

_**How can that happen? I only ate a few bites!**_

I manage to keep my cool, and when I'm done my red beans and rice, I start in on the fruit - chewing slowly. I eat most of that as well, but save the grapes for last so I can relish their cool crispness.

When everything is gone, I sip my water, and try to calm myself. My stomach still feels bloated.

_**It's just a swollen belly, you dolt. It's not going to kill you!**_

I try to keep my facial features steady and not look uncomfortable. I am, after all, eating for my friends as much as for my own sake. I don't want them to worry about me anymore, and I really doubt I'll convince them that I'm "just a little upset" about Sirius if what I seem to get all worked up over is a few mouthfuls of beans and rice!

Yet, I'm starting to feel more upset and anxious with every passing moment, and I don't know _**why**_. Just the sensation, I think. It feels like a violation – to be this swollen. It feels abnormal.

Eventually, I just make up some excuse about needing my Herbology text for our next class, and excuse myself from the table.

"See you in Herbology, 'k Ron?"

Ron just nods and gives me a distracted wave with his hand - seemingly STILL interested in debating the merits of computer games with Hermione. In reality, I just don't think he wants to admit that she is making more sense this time.

I leave and make my way to the ground level boys bathroom, feeling more nauseous now than I did before, even.

_**Did I eat too much? Is that the problem?**_

My stomach is currently gurgling angrily, and feels inflamed.

How am I supposed to focus on classes, never mind train for Quidditch, when I feel like I might throw up any second?!

Obviously, I _CAN'T_ really concentrate right now…and that poses a problem. I cannot afford to screw up any more games, or miss any more practices.

Catching my reflection in the mirror, I can see that I'm slightly sweaty, with dark raccoon circles under my eyes.

If I don't manage to feel better soon, I'm going to ruin another game for us all. I need to be sharp tonight: we are up against Slytherin.

The prospect of blowing another Quidditch match eventually makes my decision for me. I am part of a team, sure, but Seekers have a lot of responsibility.

So I can't be slowed down right now. I can't be weighed down with food that evidentially doesn't agree with me.

Determined to fix this problem, I open a stall door and drop down to my knees, pressing my belly against the rim of the toilet. I think of everything that has made me feel queasy or revolted lately: the meat, the blood, Uncle Vernon and what happened in summer - _everything_ - and I almost vomit just doing that alone.

But it's not enough – even the most vile, sickening thoughts are not enough, so I apply some pressure against my throat, wait a moment, and feel my gag relief cut in. It doesn't work on the first attempt, and I only cough a lot, my eyes tearing up. I try again, this time applying greater pressure, and successfully get sick.

After a minute of vomiting, I step away, making sure that I did get all the vomit into the toilet bowl. When I'm satisfied that I have, I flush, and feel myself sway a little as I stand up.

Overall, however, I feel a _lot better_. The churning in my belly has ceased, and I feel calm again – even if my throat is sore, or the side of my throat a little puffy. Cause those are such minor things.

I swallow down the disgusting aftertaste and wipe the corners of my mouth with a couple sheets of toilet paper before exiting my stall. Grabbing my pack, I check to make sure that I do have my Herbology text. It would look pretty ridiculous if I showed up at that class _without_ my text, considering that I used the textbook as my excuse for leaving early from the lunch room in the first place!

After a moment of searching, I realize that I do indeed have it on me (that was lucky!), and feel a little relived. At least I'm not going to be late.

Unfortunately, the relief quickly dissipates into dread when I round the corner, make my way past the sinks and almost run into…

_**Oh shit. Oh no. No.**_

"I thought I saw you come in here, Harry."

Remus. He's staring at me with an intense look, and I can tell he's deciding what to say next.

"Looks like I was right…"

I have no idea how long he has been here, and I feel unsettled not knowing.

I feel my face flush.

_**Why did he come in here?**_

This washroom is rarely used anymore. It's dingy, and far from the beaten path. There aren't even classrooms close by, it's hardly frequented by students.

Filtch, possibly, or the gardeners and caretakers might stop in here from time to time. But they are about it.

_**That's why I chose this place…no one ever comes in here…**_

Certainly not the teachers.

And Remus Lupin? He doesn't even teach DADA anywhere near this section of the castle.

Yet here he stands, staring at me with a damn sphinx look on his face, totally unreadable.

"Look, I know that you…" and he stops for a moment.

Starting over, he says, "I don't teach my next DADA class until sixth period today. Would you like to take a walk with me?"

I feel the queasiness return. I'm pretty sure I know what's coming next. And I want to avoid this discussion, if I can.

"Herbology", I mutter dumbly. Then, a second attempt: "I can't really…not now. I have Herbology class soon."

My voice is uncharacteristically sotto and I'm finding it hard to even look at him right now. Actually, I find myself looking everywhere _but_ at him.

_**Stop acting guilty! What if you were sick?**_

_It's an idea. _

I could, of course, claim to have just been ill. Flu or something. It's not like he can accuse me of lying. Besides, wouldn't he assume that would be the case over…anything else?

Hermione and Ron have been on my case for a while though, and they could have said something to him in the meantime. It's not all that farfetched.

But if they did go to him – _and they'd go to him before anyone else_ – then Remus probably will be a little more on guard.

He seems to read my mind at that, and speaks up.

"You are planning on attending Herbology today? Are you sure you feel well enough?" His eyes examine my frame quickly.

"I'll manage", I supply awkwardly, having a difficult time addressing him by his name all of a sudden.

"You always do, don't you? Manage, that is."

I try to pull off a convincing shrug. All at once I feel unbelievably sad.

I then make a move to exit the room. I do not want to get upset in front of anyone right now, least of all Remus.

He lets me by, holding the door open for us both, and walks a few paces with me in the direction of the North Wing.

I am reminded of the last time we did this – him escorting me to the very same class, too. Herbology. I remember his gift of chocolate.

_**Which you showed such appreciation for by throwing in the garbage – do you remember that? **_

We reach the end of the hallway, and I can now see some of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs decked out in white botany gowns, ready to handle the plants.

Neville waves to both Remus and me, a wide and friendly smile on his face. He then points to his shielded head and calls out: "Make sure you grab a pair of ear plugs from the stock room! Professor Sprout is having us work on the adolescent mandrakes today. It's bound to be really noisy!" and with that he disappears 'round the bend - excited to get to the greenhouse and begin working on his mandrake project.

Remus grins at Neville's enthusiasm, before turning back to me.

"Well, there really is nothing in this world quite like 30 shrieking botanical entities to make you feel better, isn't that right Harry?"

I give a slight smile and am about to turn and follow in Neville's footsteps when my mentor briefly touches my shoulder, causing me to still.

I look back at him, expectantly.

"Just know…", he pauses, "my door is always open if you need to talk to someone. _About anything_. Will you remember that?"

I feel myself flush again, not used to having so many people be concerned about me – about how I _feel, _anyway.

Not trusting my voice to reply to him without warbling, I only nod.

Then, "I… have to go. Class is gonna start. I'll see you later?"

Remus studies me for a moment.

"I'm going to hold you to that", he says warmly, before turning to walk back towards the central area of the castle.


	4. This Endless Fight

**Breannatala, YNI**: thanks :)

**BrightFeather**: I found the story on another forum – a HP specific one. I couldn't find it under the penname _Avus_ here on fanfic (dot) net…?

Regarding Harry's recovery, well, I know that recovery takes a _long time_. (In my case, three years on from gaining enough weight to qualify as healthy, I STILL have many of the same thoughts, worries, anxieties and desires to restrict - which surprises me because I guess I thought I'd be "over it" by now and would stop idealizing a time when I was, in fact, very sick). What I would like to do is show how certain traits can develop and how ed's and self-destructive behaviors can change, morph, but still have a hold on the sufferer (because sometimes new obsessions take the place of old ones, and people think someone is getting better – but they are just shifting methods). I'd like for Harry, ultimately, to make progress before the story ends though, yes.

**Spuffy57**: I dislike it when Snape is written out of character too! I mean, even though Harry has problems, I cannot see him transforming into this sweet, compassionate person (after all, Harry came to Hogwarts an orphan, with all these pressures – and Snape was snarky to him at the age of 11…so…).

However, I do think that somewhere in Snape's body a beating heart dwells, so part of this story will be about how _**all **_the characters change as a result of Harry's descent into deep depression and self-abusive practices (_all_ in this case being Hermione, Remus, Snape – and to a less examined degree, Ron, Dumbledore and the others).

I haven't exactly written much about Harry's _depression_ yet, because although Harry harms – he does so to prevent _having_ to feel in the first place. So things are definitely going to get rougher for the poor boy before they get better.

**Ddamato**: Learning new words is fun! I love it when you come across a new word that perfectly captures something efficiently and beautifully. And each language has completely different appreciations for human feelings. It's great. As a little kid, it was one of my…hobbies (word etymology/ studying new terms etc.). I was extremely geeky (ya think?), but also very introverted, and didn't have many friends. Who knows…possibly because I was spending all my time reading and watching Jeopardy? (_smirks_).

**MandyWinchester**: I used to watch Jensen Ackles on _Dark Angel_. He made me laugh on that show too. But I think as far as wanting a sibling goes, Sam would be easier to live with, don't you think? (vbg) Did you see the episode where Dean pours powder in Sam's boxers to make him itch? He's a bit of a troublemaker. ;)

**LarkLover**: thanks!

**Yeeww:** you're welcome :-)

**AlastrionaSnape**: I think that the way in which someone uses food to cope with stress or upset is far less important than how they feel, emotionally. I have known people who have suffered from COE, and they were terribly depressed and just as anxious as I ever was – no question about it. So I have a tremendous amount of empathy for those who overeat, as well as for those who don't eat enough, or who purge etc. All of it's hellish, isn't it?

**ClearBlackGlass:** thanks for bringing that to my attention! I hadn't really been aware of it – I guess it should have clicked (laughs). I enabled the anon review feature now (as I know a lot of people won't have fanfic (dot) net accounts. Thanks again!

**A/N**: This chapter focuses on Harry's reluctance to admit to his problems. At this point, he is still in denial about a lot, especially as it relates to his eating (or lack thereof). He is cognizant of the fact that vomiting and starving aren't exactly _good_ of course, but he's still downplaying the stranglehold that his restriction has on him – the addictive quality of not eating, and the reasons behind it.

Additionally, this chapter introduces the subjects of sexual abuse, and dissociation as a coping mechanism (Harry's history with dissociation was hinted at in chapter 1, but is being fleshed out a little more here). Please read at your own discretion.

After this chapter is posted, it may be another week or so before I have the next chapter up (my life is about to get very busy all of a sudden! So I'll have less time to write). :(

"_The ones that love us never really leave us"_ – Sirius to Harry

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**Chapter 4** – This Endless Fight

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Sometimes I don't know what happens to time. Not just the years – not just the huge blocks of time that pass so quickly that you can hardly believe it. Not just _those_ passages of time, but the minutes and hours that seem to be taken from you. You blink, and half a class is gone. You close your eyes for a moment, and you wake up a day older.

That is how I feel now, because it is already time for _Defense Against the Dark Arts_, a class I'm usually waiting for – a class I typically look forward to attending, and actually study for with interest.

But today I feel a little differently about having to go to this class.

I still haven't formulated a plan as to how I'm going to handle Remus, and I know he'll likely try to talk to me again. My only real excuse earlier was having to attend _Herbology_. But now I am out of excuses, and I still don't want to talk to him. Practically speaking, I guess I have another hour to come up with something, because it's not as if he is going to grill me in a class of 30 students. Although that is little consolation at this point - I doubt I'll have come up with anything more in an hour anyway.

So it's with great reluctance that I make my way towards the West Wing with the other 6th year Gryffindors.

I walk with Ron and Neville through the halls. The two continue chatting about our projects for _Care of Magical Creatures _(Ron has teamed up with Hermione, and I'm with Neville), but I have stopped adding my own two cents to the discussion now – anxiety about having to go to _Dark Arts_ clouding my mind.

Ron breaks me from my reverie.

"You don't look so happy, mate. What's up?"

Neville turns and nods his head in agreement with Ron's assessment.

Sighing, I kick at the floor with the toe of my runner, scuffing it up with a line of black.

"I dunno. Just not in the mood for _Dark Arts _today, I guess."

Ron doesn't buy it for a second.

"Oh come on…you expect us to believe that? _Dark Arts_ is your favorite class! Plus, it's not as if you have detention with Snape later on. Nothing to dread."

_If you only knew…_

I have a thought then.

I realize that Ron can be my alibi – my _excuse._

But I have to give him something; I can't just continue lying about why I don't want to head into the _DADA_ classroom and face Remus.

"Neville, can you give us a moment?"

Neville gives me a half smile, and says _"Sure",_ although his face has lost a bit of its warmth. I guess he feels cut out – pushed away. I try to give him a friendly smile in return so he knows not to take it personally.

Once he's gone, Ron grabs my shoulder and gives it a playful shake.

"So? Yeah? What's wrong, hmm?"

I debate whether or not I should tell him the truth. Of course, if I could talk to him about this, I could just as easily talk to Remus about it too. And Remus already knows more, so in some ways…that makes things easier.

I keep it vague.

"I did something stupid earlier, and Rem…Professor Lupin sorta found out about it. And now I really don't want to see him, I guess."

"Ahhh…there's that Gryffindor spirit we all know and love! Avoidance is the new courage this year, huh?"

I'm tempted to smack him, and I guess he can tell that I'm not amused, because he sobers up quickly and adds, "Well, what does _stupid_ mean exactly? Like…is he mad at you or something?"

Of course Ron would want me to come clean, and just tell him.

"No, he's not mad at me, exactly. I don't think", I pause, "no…no. Not mad. But maybe…"

"Worried?"

I swallow down a lump.

"Yeah, maybe worried…"

He combs his hands through his hair at that, and exhales deeply. When he speaks he sounds frustrated.

"Well – what did you do to worry him? I mean, aside from him finding out about this idiotic diet that you're on, I can't imagine…"

"I'm _not_ on a diet!"

Ron laughs at that, but there is no humor in the sound. It sounds harsh.

"Whatever, mate. I mean…come on. Who do you think you're fooling? Me? _Hermione? _Crookshanks eats more than you, and Hermione has _him_ on a diet! And what's this now with your "no meat" policy? Honestly Harry, I…"

The volume of his speech has risen as he's gotten more and more worked up. Maybe talking to Ron was a bad idea. It certainly doesn't bode well for having to talk with Remus.

"Keep your voice down!"

I glance at my watch. We have five minutes until our _Dark Arts_ class begins.

It doesn't feel safe to have this discussion out in the open, so I grab Ron by the arm and lead him towards the door, and we exit the hall so we can have our privacy. Or rather, so I can have _my_ privacy I guess, because Ron has no reason to be ashamed right now.

"I swear to you, I'm not on a diet", I say finally. I'm more than a little uncomfortable with the entire conversation.

"No?! You sure? Because, I could swear…"

"I'm _**not**_."

"But you're not eating. Or not _enough, _anywa_y_. I mean…you've got to be hungry. So if you aren't trying to lose weight, what gives?"

"I'm _not_ trying to lose weight."

"Then _**what**_", he stresses, "are you trying to do?"

I don't know… 

"I haven't had much of an appetite…I guess…"

He snorts. "Not much of an appetite? Harry – you HAVE to have an appetite by now. You must be starving! You've been living off of tomato soup since we got back over a month ago…"

I'm about to argue with him, when he amends his statement.

"Oh sorry. How could I forget? You also have the occasional piece of apple…my bad. But even that is few and far between. Seriously…you are running everyday and playing Quidditch which demands a lot of energy, and you don't sleep anymore…"

_**How does he know I can't sleep? He's out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow! Is he watching me? Staying up later and watching me?**_

"…and you've lost a ton of weight too…so…"

No I haven't. I've barely lost anything… 

Ron stops speaking, and is looking at me oddly now. He almost looks…nervous.

"You can't see it, can you?"

I don't have time for his cryptic comments today.

"See _what?_"

"That you have gotten way too skinny…that you…"

"I'm not skinny!" and I laugh at his absurd statement.

"Yes", he stresses, "_you are_. The fact that you can't see it is what scares me the most right now. More than you actually being skinny, I think. I mean, if you could at least see it… at least then we'd have some sort of common ground here. Merlin, Harry! I'm starting to think that Hermione is right…that you might have some sort of…"

"Some sort of _what?_"

I'm getting angry now. He won't even _listen _to me. He's not hearing me. I might as well be a ghost.

Ron picks at a torn fingernail, bites it nervously, and says, "Well – what would you think if the roles were reversed? Hmm? What if a girl… no, scrap that… what if _Hermione _was the one who wasn't eating? What if Hermione was the one who had suddenly became a vegetarian overnight and who was getting up at 5 in the morning to go jogging…and passing out…"

_**Hermione told him! I can't believe it. I had asked her not to…**_

"…and who only wanted water and broth and was losing more and more weight? Would you be concerned, or not?"

I know I would be…

But…this isn't the same thing.

"I'm not Hermione, Ron…Girls are different. If Hermione stopped eating, it would probably be because _she was_ trying to lose weight, because you know…girls worry about that sort of stuff and…"

"And you don't?"

I feel like screaming. This roundabout conversation is going nowhere. I'm beyond frustrated right now.

"I don't think I'm fat, if that's what you're implying in your _oh-so-subtle_ way! **Look**, I just wanted your help here, I didn't want the third degree!"

Ron looks at me sadly, but when he speaks again, his voice is firm.

"I'm not going to help you avoid Lupin, Harry, if that's what you're asking. Frankly – I'm relieved this happened. Now I don't have to be put in the horrible position of watching you get sicker, or going to a teacher and feeling like I'm ratting on you."

I just glare at him. I can't believe it!

Picking up my pack and slinging it over my shoulder, I hiss, "Some friend you are…"

He doesn't say anything, but instead trails behind me as we both make our way back inside.

---------

I enter the classroom quietly, my head down. I can't help it. I'm just so…**angry**. I don't want to be here right now. I don't want to see anyone or have to deal with anyone. I just want to go to my room and take a bunch of muggle sleeping pills and doze off - put this whole horrid day behind me.

Unfortunately, I can't do that. I still have this class to get through, not to mention a Quidditch match an hour and a half after _Dark Arts_ wraps up. There's no way I can skip that.

And to make everything even more awkward, my seat is right next to Ron's. To the right of his actually, which means I'll actually have to squeeze past him just to get to my space. Not wanting to look at him, I accidentally brush his side with my pack as I pull it off to put it over my chair.

"Watch it, why doncha! You hit me with your bag!"

He sounds mad now, too. Which somehow makes my mood all the worse. It wasn't as if I betrayed _him_. He has no right to be pissed with me.

"Fuck off", I snarl, and he recoils as if slapped.

For a second I feel a pang of contrition, but I push it away. I want to hold onto my anger. I'm weak without it.

A few kids hear me. Hermione, for one – who turns and looks at me in shock. And Remus too, as he looks up from his desk, equally stunned. I've never talked to anyone like that before, not even Malfoy – so I guess it's a little unexpected to hear those words coming from my mouth. Directed at Ronald Weasley, one of my best friends no less.

But Remus seems to recover quickly, and begins his lecture with barely a pause, and soon the other students stop staring at me and begin to write down some instructions that he has scrawled onto the board. I do the same. No need to make myself look anymore strange.

"Okay guys, our lesson today is about defenses. Specifically, it is about protecting ourselves against harmful forces, and not letting our emotions weaken our blocks."

_**God. **_

They are all so transparent.

I'm sure this topic was just randomly chosen.

_Sure it was… Completely coincidental._

I scratch my notepad with my quill, making sharp, stabbing lines all over the loose-leaf until a quarter of the page is full of red ink. 

Remus' eyes are still focused on me, so I put down the quill and pretend to be listening.

"So…anyway," he begins, "we will be teaming up again, like last class. Groups of two, please."

He does a head count. I see his fingers moving in the air, counting us.

"29", he mutters.

"Okay everyone…listen up", Remus says a little more loudly, "We are going to have 14 groups of two today, because we have an odd man out. So the last one to pair up will be tragically stuck with me."

Everyone laughs like that's really funny, while I look around quickly, deciding who I can work with, as Ron and I almost always team up. But I really don't feel like working with him right now.

"I'll work with you, hey Neville?" I say lightly.

Neville just looks between the two of us, not knowing what to say. Not wanting to be in the middle, I guess. Ron doesn't say anything, though. He just stalks off to find a different partner. As I watch him go, I see him approach Hermione and the two of them whisper something.

Neville continues to stare at me.

"What?" I say testily.

"Nuh-nothing."

I tap my quill against my desk.

"Do you want to block or cast the offensive spell?" I try to sound indifferent. Play it cool.

He shrugs, nervously.

"Casting, maybe?" he finally supplies.

I shrug.

_Whatever._

I stand up, and we take our places.

"On three?" he queries.

"Yeah, sure."

He begins counting.

When he gets to three, the two of us ready our wands.

"_Aguamenti!"_

"_Deprimo!" _I block, causing the jet of water from Neville's direction to blast away from me, and reducing it to a light mist that begins to fall over the entire classroom like a gentle rain.

A couple of the girls shriek, and I roll my eyes.

_So they get a little wet…big deal._

I hear Hermione's voice ring out,_ "Incantatem!" _and everyone stops whining.

As if they couldn't do that for themselves… 

-------

I write down the pages for our assigned reading as fast as I can. I don't want to be one of the last ones in the room, and class has just wrapped up.

But I'm still not surprised when Remus comes over to my desk.

"Uh, Harry – can I talk to you for a second, please?"

Neville tactfully tries to busy himself with packing his bag, looking disinterested.

"Uh, I'll be watching the Quidditch match later…good luck with that," he says politely, before leaving.

Almost everyone is gone now, and I cringe.

When the last student does, in fact, depart Remus turns back to me again.

"So…we finally get a moment so speak."

I try to tune him out, and stab the quill against the desk, leaving red marks on the wood.

"Harry…"

His hand comes to mine, closing over them for a moment until I've stopped my actions.

"Please just listen. Come on…"

"Come on, _what?_" I say petulantly. I know I'm being difficult.

"Come on. Don't hold back."

I pull my satchel further across my chest, bringing it to rest against my chest as if it is a shield.

"You haven't been having a very easy time of it lately, have you?"

I shift in my chair, trying to find a more comfortable position.

"Well…let's see: Sirius just died. Does everyone expect me to forget about that? Am I supposed to just come back to school and pretend like everything is fine?"

Remus sighs. "No, of course not. I don't think that would be healthy – to not face his death. I know you miss him. I miss him too."

I swallow thickly. I don't want to cry.

I won't.

_Not again._

I focus on my anger - the injustice of Sirius' death. I focus on how much I hate the Death Eaters, Voldemort. I focus on how much I hate myself. Only when I feel as if I have my voice under control, do I speak.

"So that's _that_. I want him to come back, and I don't see what's so strange about missing him! And I just wish that everyone would just leave me alone and let me feel badly about this. Because I feel really bad about this, and _**why won't people let me be upset?**_"

Remus doesn't say anything for a while.

"You feel "badly"? What do you mean by that exactly?"

He's frowning now, his expression questioning.

"What do you think I mean? It's pretty obvious that I got him killed! _**I **_was the one who went out to the ministry against orders, and took matters into my own hands…thought I had everything figured out, was so smart! He died trying to save _**me**_. Had I just…"

My voice is starting to tremble.

I don't want to talk to Remus anymore. But I feel like someone has flipped on a switch. Like a dam, ready to burst, and people have been adding more and more pressure to my load, and I can't really _contain_ it all anymore.

I look down, feel warm tears fill my eyes, and pray that Remus can't see them. Although I'm pretty sure that he can. He's sitting not two feet from me, after all.

After a beat, he clears his throat.

"Harry?"

I just stare at a knot in the grain of the desk. Just stare at it and stare at it and try to tune out Remus, and this room, and this conversation, and thoughts of Sirius, and everything else.

"Harry…look at me. _Please_."

I do so, but hesitantly.

"Sirius' death was _**not **_your fault. Ok? _**None of this was your fault**_."

"Yes, it is", I whisper. My voice feels hoarse all of a sudden – my throat hurts – and Remus looks blurred.

"Harry, listen very carefully: you are not to blame. _Not in any sense._ You did what you thought was the best thing to do in the given situation. You acted with the best knowledge that you had at the time. You didn't know Sirius was going to follow you to the ministry. You couldn't have foreseen what could have happened."

I wipe at my eyes tiredly, and rest my head in my hand. My guilt is heightened right now – stronger than I've ever allowed it to register. I don't usually keep Sirius in my mind for too long, because it's too painful. My whole body hurts.

_I can't feel like this anymore._

_I just can't._

"Harry? What are you thinking?"

How do I answer that? 

"Harry?"

_**How do I begin?**_

"I should have been the one to die, Remus. _**Me**_, not him."

Remus is quiet for an impossibly long time. I almost wonder if I actually spoke aloud, or if it was just…a thought. But then he _does _speak, and I know he's heard me. The sound is odd. Muffled - too quiet or something. He sounds different. Not just sad…but something that I can't identify…

"It would have killed him to lose you, Harry", he says at last, strained.

"_**And now it's killing me!"**_

I didn't mean to say that aloud.

I really _didn't_.

I study my hands then, upset with my outburst.

"I'm sorry Remus. _I didn't mean that… I…I didn't mean_…"

He shakes his head.

"No, it's alright. I think that's maybe the most honest you've been with yourself for a while now. And… I think you _DID_ mean that. Mean it very much, actually."

I don't want to speak anymore; I just keep making things worse. I could kick myself.

Yet Remus apparently thinks I've finally revealed something worth discussing.

"Is that why you haven't been eating?" he starts gently.

That gets my attention – and fresh panic bubble up inside me.

I start to rise from my chair.

"Harry…"

"No! I don't want to discuss this with you!"

He looks at me patiently, his voice even.

"I know you don't. But I can't just sit idly by while you starve yourself…"

"I'm not starving myself!"

"What do you call it then? Cleansing? Detoxification? Are you not eating because you lack an appetite – because if that's the case…"

Only I do have an appetite. I'm always hungry.

I'm hungry every minute of every single day.

"No."

"No? No what?"

"I get hungry. I'm always hungry."

He looks a little disconcerted at that.

"I see."

But he doesn't. He has no idea_. No fucking clue._ He thinks that I'm punishing myself. He thinks I'm punishing myself for Sirius, and while that might be part of it, that's not the reason why I can't bring myself to eat.

I don't know if I should say anything.

If I don't say anything, I never will. I will never have this opportunity again. I'll take this to my grave, and I don't know if I'll last if I try to keep it to myself any longer.

I want to keep this secret, but I can't stop thinking about it. I feel haunted, contaminated.

Somehow, I manage to get the words out.

"You don't see, though. No one does."

Oh god, it was hard saying even that. I had to force them out.

How am I supposed to get through this? 

He tries to make eye contact with me, but I'm not going to give him that chance, and am examining my desk again. I know every swirl, every pattern, every knot and imprint on this table… Because maybe if I keep my eyes down, maybe if I forget that I'm about to do the craziest, stupidest thing of my whole life…maybe then I can get it out.

But if I look at him, I'm going to chicken out.

He tries again. "Can you elaborate?"

_**Not easily.**_

_**But it's now or never.**_

"It's…complicated."

"Ok."

"It's not even about Sirius."

He doesn't say anything for an agonizingly long time, and then –

"What is it about then?"

I want to bite my cheek once more. I want to feel the pain, taste the blood. I feel as if I am possessed – I shouldn't be talking to Remus about this. Not any of this. It's wrong and he's never going to look at me the same way again if I tell him. He's never going to see me in the same light.

I keep my head down. If I don't look at him, it might seems less real.

"It's about this summer. At home."

_Why are you telling him this? It won't take it away._

It'll still be there.

I can almost see the gears turning in his head, piecing things together.

"What happened in the summertime, Harry?"

I take a deep breath. I'm going to need it.

And then I see what I can do...what will make everything easier. I can leave myself. I can go away. Go outside of myself, like I did before – in the summer – and come back when everything is okay again. It's not that hard to do anymore. I just need to focus on something outside of myself, and think of it with all my might - let myself merge with it, and then I'll start to feel unreal. Like I'm not really in myself… I can go away. 

I first learned how to do it when I was eight, after Uncle Vernon hit me too hard one day, and my arm snapped backwards and made this snapping sound, like twigs popping. At first I was terrified – my arm bent at this sickening angle – and then I remember thinking that it wasn't my arm anymore. It was an arm. But I, Harry, had left it behind. I remember that all the fear faded away then, and I became very still and calm and unafraid.

This time I chose to think about outer space: I think about how cold it is, how dark, and I think of the swirling galaxies, star clusters, other planets - and I start to feel numb. It seems okay to talk now, because only my body is talking.

I stare straight ahead at the blackboard, at the chalk, and that too becomes a galaxy.

"My uncle hates me, you know… But even though he hates me, he thinks he owns me. He likes owning me."

Remus doesn't speak. He doesn't ask me to continue. There is absolutely no sound coming from him.

"Do you know what you have to do to own someone? _You have to take their body away from them_ - and if you can take it, then they become your…_**Horcrux**_. If you take their body, you can deposit part of your self into them. So it doesn't matter what I do to this body, don't you _**see**_ that? I don't _own_ it anymore."

I am starting to feel cold. I think maybe it's because I'm outside of myself, in space. Outer space is very, very cold.

_**And inner space is very cold too…**_

But if I look at him, I'm going to come back, and I haven't said everything. I can't come back just yet.

"He… took it. He went inside it and he's _**in me**_ until I can get him out again. So if I eat…I feed him."

I hear Remus inhale sharply, and his breath hitches in his throat. After a moment he touches my arm, and I don't even flinch, I don't move.

"So now you can see. I _do_ have to cleanse. He needs to come out."

And I realize then that it's easier just to…show him.

I pull the edge of my shirt up and hold out my left arm for him to see – all the cuts are now healed, leaving bright purple scars in their wake.

I can hear him swallow then, because aside from my talking, it is so _still_ in here. I can even hear the thrum of my pulse in my ears. I'm still focused on the chalkboard.

Then, almost timidly…

"Harry – it's going to be okay."

_**Is it?**_

"Harry – please look at me…"

But I can't…because as soon as I do, I'm going to come back too quickly. It'll jolt me – the eye contact. It always does. More than anything else.

When I make no move, he brings his hand to my face and tilts my chin up.

And I knew it was coming, I knew it, but I still can't help it.

I burst into tears. Not panicked sobs, not tears of frustration and anger.

But hot tears, stinging me, accompanied by a sense of pressure in my chest, as if something has just ruptured.

I choke on this unfamiliar sensation – stronger than anything I've ever felt before – as if all the pain - my Uncle, Cedric, my parents… Sirius – is hitting me like a megaton blast. All at once.

I _can't breathe_ - the force of the rupture pushes the oxygen out of my body - up and out, not unlike if Dementors were surrounding me, evacuating the air from my lungs themselves.

Remus put his arms around me, sensing the attack - but slowly, as if not to startle me.

I find myself moving closer towards him as if on automatic pilot. Some of the pressure in my chest dies away from this action alone, but now that I can breathe, my whole body starts shaking. It takes me a moment to realize that I'm not just shaking… I'm sobbing.

Remus holds me against his chest then, securely, his arms coming to wrap around me and I just cave into him, exhausted.

He's muttering something, but I can't hear too well, it sounds like gibberish, and the pounding in my head has increased - the noise is too much.

I can hear his heart echoing through his body, through his shirt, reaching me. The rhythm of it assuring, grounding and I feel as if I want to go to sleep.

But…I feel…**safe** like this; with my eyes shut tightly - him gently rocking me, like I was a small child. Never in a million years did I think I'd let anyone do this for me, but right now I need to feel like I'm in a different space – far, far away from what happened. I don't want to have to go it alone anymore. I'm too tired of fighting.

----------

**A/N:** I dedicate this chapter to the amazing band, U2. _You think?_ Hope my tribute to one of their all-time best songs wasn't TOO obvious. I just couldn't help myself (laughs).

R/R :) I accept anonymous reviews now. ;)


	5. Lift Me Up

**Lotusandwine: **I have a history of self-injury similar to yours (cutting), so I empathize - and know how addictive it can be and how hard to give up. I have been si…free? (_sounds odd to call it that, almost as if you're describing a fat free dressing or something, don't you think?)_ for about a year now. But, you are totally right – if you are under any undue stress, the desire to si increases 10 fold.

**Lola**: Best of luck to you :-)

**Theaterphunk**: I'm in that awkward time frame before grad school begins, and essentially "killing time" since I've just graduated from my undergrad program. And of course, grad school won't pay for itself, but I wish I could stay home all day and just write!

**MandyWinchester**: I think both of them are awesome. I just think, as far as siblings go, life would be easier with Sam. I have a sister, and she's the female equivalent of Dean – a total rabble-rouser, the wild child of the family (whereas I was sort of the opposite – too well behaved for my own good!), and jokes around similarly to Dean. She also loves to pull pranks, and often takes things too far.

**Saffron, Vera, Alicea, yeeww, Breannatala, SlytherinNixxy, Alex, BrightFeather, Saffron**: thanks for all your kind words and reviews guys:)

**fiatluxanna**: oh wow, thank you! How sweet :)

I, too, read a _ton_ of fanfic (my guilty pleasure). I started getting into it when I was about 11 or 12 - I was a massively huge fan of _The X-Files_ at the time, and I would read stories over at the Gossamer archive.

Re: ed's and self-injury. Yes, I have struggled with both (ednos alternating with anorexia for six years (currently in recovery), and self-injury up until last year).

**Yuffie'sNinjaInsanity**: yup – _**U2**_ rocks my socks.

**TerraFria**: someone very close to me suffers from bipolar disorder, so I know (second hand, but I appreciate at a purely intellectual level) how terrible it can be! How life-altering – utterly disruptive. This person, my best friend in the entire world, has found that her animals help her a lot – as far as depressive periods go. She also is very interested in Buddhism, as am I. There is actually a simple, but effective quote by C.S. Lewis that I think about when I feel self-conscious (or if I am having an "off" day – especially if stressed, and then eating becomes more difficult during those times). Anyway, it is: _**"You don't have a soul. You ARE a soul. You have a body." **_Most people phrase it as the other way around – taking ownership of the body, but neglecting to take ownership of the soul. I wonder how that mindset generates psychological problems for sensitive people. Because, if someone is remotely perfectionistic, and they undergo too much stress, they are going to likely try to alter their body – to alter what is 'real', what is within their control.

At the end of the day, I believe that we are all spirit beings first. If that thought could ALWAYS occupy our minds, always be with us, I'm sure a lot of problems would at least be diminished…

**Loveseverussnape**: I think the Remus-Harry friendship is interesting simply because we have this responsible character, who teaches at Harry's school, and who cares about him in a way that is going to be most beneficial following Sirius' death. Considering the fact that Dumbledore had periods where he was emotionally trying to distance himself from Harry, I think Remus stands out as perhaps the only adult that has ties back to Harry's family, and who has a healthy outlook on life but who has never seemingly deserted Harry (given, of course…his abnormalities. (_laughs_)).

Snape, while undoubtedly fascinating, is not a character that I could ever imagine Harry fully trusting – and with an established history of emotional abuse (in the books), Harry is already going to have trust issues. He's going to remain wary of Snape for life, I think. So I went with an established good guy to fulfill the role of mentor, although Snape will be featured a bit more later on, too.

**Ddamato**: I haven't read _Deathly Hallows_ yet (I'm waiting to borrow the book from a friend), but this story will take place during Harry's 6th year only. Re: books, and reading…I love all sorts of things! I am a big fan of Orson Scott Card's _**Ender's Game**_ series right now.

**CrimsonTears**: I have recently gotten over an ulcer as well. I know that mine was caused by a bacterial infection (most ulcers are), but left untreated, it can scar the ulcerated tissue (being it your stomach, or your duodenum). You really should have it looked at, CT! Trust me, although you are working it to "your advantage" right now, and don't feel it to necessarily be a bad thing – if the tissue gets scarred, digestion becomes much poorer. Due to ulceration in the past, celiacs disease and some other gi issues, I cannot easily digest ANYTHING anymore. It feels awful to always have a bloated stomach, simply because you have consumed an apple, or some carrots…or any other solid food.

Get it treated, okay??

**Patricia8, xspollyx, cinemanic**: thanks for your interest guys!

**VirginSerpent**: thanks for your kind comments :) Snape will begin to factor into the story more and more, yes.

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**Chapter 5** – Lift Me Up

"_The sorrow which has no vent in tears may make other organs weep."_ – Henry Maudsley

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Remus is holding me so tightly.

I feel safe.

So it's with great reluctance when I finally pull away from his warmth. When I start to sit back, move against his arms to break out of the hug.

He lets me go quickly. I guess he worries that I'll panic if I am restricted and I cannot escape immediately from a physical embrace. He knows…that I can't have someone hold me down, or I'll freak. Ever since the ra…

I can't say it.

Not by name.

_**You're pathetic.**_

I'm actually surprised that I let him hug me so easily in the first place.

_Why would he even want to touch you? You dirty piece of…_

I don't like to be hugged anymore.

It's hard to explain _**why**_.

Perhaps it's because my whole body feels…I'm not sure, heightened to touch. Or perhaps because I am aware of just how much space I'm taking up, how I need to get…cleansed. And I don't want someone touching something soiled.

In this case…**me**.

At the moment, I position myself back down in my seat and my eyes fall away from his. If I thought it was hard meeting his eyes before I told him my little family secret, it has got to be ten times _worse_ right now by comparison.

I can sense that Remus is trying to engage me to speak; he wants me to say something - to break the silence first. I had cried for quite a while, and then he held me, and now all of time is merging together. It seems like I've been here, in this classroom… for an eon but also for no time at all – for the blink of an eye.

I don't like this feeling of unreality.

But I don't like feeling real these days, either.

When I don't make the first move, he finally speaks.

"So…" he begins softly. "That was sure something…massive…that you were holding inside."

His voice cracks on _inside._

He can't say it either.

Not the real word for "it".

I can sense that he can't.

Or maybe he can, but he doesn't want to highlight exactly what "it" is – give it a name. Maybe he's doing it for my benefit.

And that's okay.

I don't mind him avoiding its name. If I call it by name, it makes it seem more real, and I am having a hard enough time dealing with the fact that it happened to me already.

I don't want it to feel any more real.

"Harry – are you going to say anything?"

I shrug, but I can feel my face grow hot, and look down at my lap. My eyes still feel warm from tears.

I don't know why I can't talk to him right now. I mean…I talked to him a few minutes ago.

You'd think the hard part was over.

But really, the hard part is just beginning - because now he knows.

The reality of what has happened finally hits me…

_Oh god, he KNOWS. He must think…!_

I can't even look at his face.

_**You're 16 now. Almost a man. Not a little kid anymore. And this happened…you let him take you and…**_

I'm a coward.

I need to leave…I need to do something to distance myself from this horrible, burning feeling in the center of my gut…I need to distract myself…

Quidditch! 

I had totally forgotten about Quidditch!

What time is it? 

Looking up sharply, my face pinched, he must think there is something really wrong.

"_What time is it, Remus?"_

I can't miss this game.

I _**can't**_.

I already look like such a freak.

I don't want to look like a crazy, useless _invalid_ either – someone too freaking screwed up to even play a game, to do what they should be doing for their team mates.

Remus looks down at his watch, his eyebrows furrowed – confused.

"It's 10 past 4…" he starts.

I have to leave **now**.

"I've got to _**go**_…"

"_Harry_…"

Looking at my satchel, I realize that I am unsure of how I feel about Remus, me, what's happened as it is – and I need my space. I need to get rid of these feelings. Because they are too much, and there are too many, and when things have calmed down maybe then I'll know _HOW_ I'm supposed to feel right now.

I've got to get out of here.

"I …we…_**we**_ have a match in a bit."

Remus looks at me strangely.

And I know why.

I just told him what my Uncle _did_ to me. I showed him my scars. I _**CRIED**_ on him, for Merlin's sake! Cried like a mewling little infant. I must seem completely insane to be this worked up over a _game_.

But it's not just the game.

It's what missing the game _**means**_.

Missing the game "over this" means that **this** is so severe, that a perfectly healthy 16 year old isn't expected to cope with a broomstick and a snitch. Because, of course, this big, severe thing was so bad…that he is, of course, no_ longer_ perfectly healthy…

That thought terrifies me, because I see aspects of truth in it. I'm _**not**_ functioning well. Hermione argued that I wasn't "functioning", period – like it's an all or nothing thing.

But if they all think I'm _that _disturbed…well…who am I to argue with them? Everyone can't be wrong.

_Even Snape is leaving you alone…_

"Harry – you just told me some…._**horrible **_stuff… traumatizing stuff that happened to you, that you haven't even begun to work through just yet. Stuff that NO ONE should ever go through – and that no one _can_ ever go through _without_ it changing them to some degree…"

Merlin…it is starting to make sense. 

I wonder how I've changed…

"…and after keeping it to yourself for so long, all those emotions right now…"

_They all think you're weak, you know…_

I don't want to talk about emotions, or feelings. I get enough of this from Hermione. Feelings aren't going to kill me. How I _feel _doesn't matter. I can still go to class even when I feel nothing but grief. I've done it before and no one was the wiser.

I can come back to Hogwarts and cut myself for almost a month simply because it DOESN'T attract attention, because – and only because - it _isn't_ severe. And I haven't lost that much weight – so food isn't a problem. Nothing I'm doing is so bad as they are making it out to be.

"I…I…can ignore them for now." I provide at long last.

I receive a look of confusion for that.

"My _emotions_, I can ignore them. I…they won't effect my game. I'll still play all right. None of that other stuff matters right now…I can ignore it…."

Remus looks at me in disbelief, and then:

"Harry – you were _**raped**_."

**No!**

**Don't say it by name.**

_**Please. **_

I can feel the muscles in my body retract into themselves, pull up and inwards to get away from the word, the sound. _So ugly_.

Images then, fast and broken – sort of like my breathing.

_Waking up, confused, warm hand on my throat. _

"_My Petunia left, you fucking bastard!"_

_Blaming me, his eyes red from bourbon, holding my throat._

_No air. Seeing stars. Struggling with my hands. _

_Uncle Vernon on me. Too much. Too heavy._

_I can't breathe. Limbs tingling. Lack of oxygen. _

_Me coughing. My throat released temporarily._

_Him pulling my pajamas down. _

_Trying to scream. Throat hurts. _

_Getting up too quickly, him grabbing me. A wall. Can't see. Something breaking. Blood down my head. _

_Sailing onto the floor, belly down. Pain. _

_No air. Knocked wind out. Can't breathe!_

_And now…_

_Him on top of me…_

_More pain._

_Sharp._

_Different._

_Sticky._

_More blood._

_Him in me._

_Too quickly._

_Moving._

_Screaming._

_Is that my voice?_

_Am I screaming?_

_Who else could be screaming?_

_Uncle Vernon's mad. _

_My head hitting the tile._

"_Shut up! Shut the hell up!"_

_Rougher now. Angry._

_**You made him angry.**_

_Me drifting out. _

_Gone._

_Gone into the forest._

_Gone._

_No more pain._

"Harry?" I hear his voice calling me back. Like a lure – a line, pulling me back in. I was going away again, and he pulled me back in from the forest.

Kind. Gentle.

Remus.

_Only Remus now._

_You can go back._

"Harry? Come on kiddo…"

He sounds scared then.

Nervous.

Agitated.

So I return, and look past him.

I'm in the classroom again.

I nod to show that I am paying attention - that I can hear him.

"Harry…listen to me. You've been violated in probably the most demeaning way anyone – male or female – can be violated. And you think I'm concerned about a _**game**_?! Concerned about the outcome of a _Quidditch match_?"

I don't know what to say…

I feel like crying again.

_Please don't make me cry, Remus._

"Harry…_you _– and _**only you**_ – matter to me. I could care less about some stupid match right now! You are a flesh and blood person, and I care about _you_. Hasn't ANYONE ever convinced you that _you_ alone – _not what you do, not what you achieve_ – but you – _**HARRY**_ – are what matters!? Don't you know that people love YOU? Not some fucking game?!"

I meet his eyes – his swearing jolts me. I have never heard Remus use profanity before.

But what shocked me most was…what he said _**about**_ _**me**_. About me mattering – just for me - not because I am the Boy-who-lived, not because I am someone who can do something that other people need.

_**Like after I had ruined my runners …**_

_**And I tried to get the melted dairy off the shoes – getting water from a hot dog stand, rubbing the leather with my sweatshirt**_**…**

_**Everything**_**…**

It's almost as upsetting to hear those particular words, as it was to tell him about my Uncle.

It's the same level of intensity to receive this sort of gift.

Maybe because they are words I always craved to hear. And so now…it's like finding something that you've always needed, missed, grieved for, dreamed about…and it comes true, comes into your life…

_**Remember the birthday ice creams?**_

_**Chocolate chip mint for him, Rocky Road for me.**_

It's_ upsetting _when you find something that magnificent, even if you dreamed your entire life of finding it. It hurts.

_**Had I looked disproportionately upset when I had dropped mine?**_

Maybe it hurts so damn much BECAUSE you have spent such a long time seeking for it…seeking for love.

_**Sirius yanked me back up to a standing position, shook my shoulder…**_

Be it friendship.

A parent.

_"They're just freaking runners, Harry! I don't love them…"_

A guardian.

"_I love __**you**__, you crazy kid! Not some stinking pair of shoes!"_

It's about being loved.

That's what we all desire…

And when you feel it for the first time, or for the first time in a long time – it hurts.

Things that are unfamiliar sometimes cause pain.

"Remus…I have to go. I have to play. If I don't…they all think something's really wrong."

An awful silence disposes itself over the room.

Then, "Harry – everything is about as wrong as it could get right now."

My throat hurts. I don't know how much more I can say.

_**Please understand, Remus. I'm so tired. I don't have any more energy to fight anyone, for anything. I need to do this – I need this distance. Just please understand.**_

A silent mantra. Over and over. _Please understand_.

And maybe there is a God, or something, on my side, because he sits up straighter then, and I hear him sigh.

"Okay Harry. I'm going to try and be reasonable. You've been playing Quidditch on and off since you got back. Maybe things will get better now…"

_Yeah_.

"But…"

Uh oh.

There's always a "but".

"I have a couple of conditions. Firstly, you have to eat something. I have a peanut butter sandwich from break, it's perfectly good – still very fresh. I also have chocolate. You can eat whichever you like, but you must have something to eat before you even think I'll let you go up on a broom and play a game where low blood sugar could cost you your life."

I want to argue that I'm fine. That I ate at lunch.

And then I remember that Remus heard me purge.

_**Shit.**_

_**He knows about that too…**_

"Ok?" he qualifies.

I nod dumbly, and wait for him to finish.

"And the second thing is this… Break is coming up soon. I want you to see someone. I can take you into London. I don't want you traveling alone. I want someone to look at you properly. Pomfrey may think she's caught everything because they know about your…cuts…but you are also terribly underweight right now, and that needs to be addressed."

A quick surge of anger then, lancing itself through my body, cutting into me worse than any physical mark.

"I'm not underweight!"

"Harry! I beg to differ. I have no idea what you weigh, but it's not a healthy weight for your height, that's for sure. And it's not just the weight loss, though that concerns me tremendously - but it's the fact that you're purging. Making yourself sick. Even if you weren't underweight, I'd insist you get checked out. This is something far too dangerous to joke around with, and you will see a doctor if you want to continue playing."

I stare angrily at my sneakers.

"Why does everyone try to control me? It's my body…Everybody thinks they own it", I whisper, having seemingly lost my voice.

I can hear him swallow then. Hurt, or just frustrated, I'm not sure.

"Look…I know it seems that way to you right now…"

"It IS that way…"

"No. It's not. I don't want to _control_ you, or your body. But I don't want to see someone I care about abuse themselves either…"

"I'm NOT abusing myself!"

Remus stands up from his desk.

"It's almost 4:20 Harry. You have 25 minutes before Quidditch begins. And in that time you have to eat something, get changed, and make it to the Quidditch field. You don't have time to argue with me."

He's got me in a bind. A catch-22.

He knows this.

I nod solemnly, feeling everything...swirling together. I'm angry, or maybe just nervous, or frustrated – I'm not sure.

"I hate this, Remus..."

_That just came out_.

"Yeah. I know. I hate this too."

He gives my hand a squeeze, and then tries for false cheer.

"So – what's it going to be? The sandwich or the chocolate?"

I feel my stomach clench. I haven't had anything solid in awhile. This is going to be hard.

"Ch...chocolate, I guess."

Remus simply gives me a small, pained smile.

-------------------

We pass Snape on the way to the mound; me - fastening my cloak, hurriedly – Remus, accompanying me, but trying to be nonchalant about it all.

Snape gives us an odd look.

"Running a little late to the game, aren't we?"

I try to feign calmness. Indifference. Remus looks almost amused.

"Severus – coming to root on your Slytherins? How _nice_. Whose up this year as Seeker? Draco? Or did he get cut again?"

Snape sneers at my mentor. Not only is Draco Malfoy his Godson – something I did not learn until this week from Hermione – but Remus and Snape were never pals, never friends. On top of that, Remus isn't succumbing to his cattiness.

"What a flimsy veil for the reason behind your true…accompaniment, Lupin."

Ah. No lost love here.

He then turns his grey eyes onto me.

"So, Mr. Potter – has it finally been decided that you need a chauffeur? A sitter? Someone to watch over you – not simply during class times any longer, but between sessions as well?"

His lips curl upwards into a sneer.

"Back off Snape! You are way out of line here."

Remus' eyes are bright. He looks infuriated. An anger that doesn't match – doesn't fit – with Snape's general baits and responses.

Everyone knows Snape mocks and jeers. It's not a surprise. But by getting so angry, Remus is revealing more of himself, not less.

I can tell that Snape sees this – has pieced it together, already come to the conclusion that things are not fine, not normal, given Remus' fervent retort.

He clucks his tongue, in fake rebuke.

"Well, I must say – if that wasn't an over the top response, even from you, I don't know what is. Tell me, has the problems of Potter here – so taken you in…that you cannot even hold your piece?"

I feel…mortified. Lost. Cold.

Snape knows. He knows – and he's taunting me with that knowledge.

Remus, however, isn't taking the bait.

He motions for Snape to move out of our way, before directing me ahead of himself and onwards to the field. But not before turning around, pleasant smile on his face. Utter calm.

"You know what Severus? You're nothing more than an overgrown adolescent – making trouble for the _sake of it_. You have some sort of bone to pick with me? A grudge against James? Well – here's an adult move…take it out on the people who you have grudges with, not flimsy stand-in's so you can expell your anger. Provided, of course, that the people you are angry with are still alive", he spits out, then looks to me quickly, realizing that the mention of my father might be startling. But I'm okay.

I grab my cloak and secure it properly - a move to show that I'm ready to play the game, that I'm ok.

Remus, apparently, is not done. "Leave Harry out of it. He's not the cause of your problems, though you are definitely the cause of some of his."

I stare, dumbfounded, immobilized, just watching him – watching Snape – his face screwing up in distaste, but something small, something real and hot burning away beneath that coldness, beneath that exterior.

"Come on Harry…your game is about to start."

I just walk away then, leaving Snape with almost…a qualm, as if walking away from a little boy who has been slapped, whose been injured, and whose never known how to deal with it. I feel…compassion, of all things; Remus' words reminding me that I'm not the only one who has been hurt. Nor, the only one who continues to carry pain.

I'm not the only person with a dark past who can't move on.


	6. Heard a Noise

**Loveseverussnape, breannatala, xcloudx, Pip3, Scorpiogirl, spuffy57, mandywinchester, patricia8, yuka, whowillyouslash**: thanks for the support (and continued support) guys! Your reviews mean a lot to me! So thank you :)

**Yeeww**: Thanks! Btw, to answer your question, I just turned 25. (_Where does the time go? I still feel 16_ :/) I've taken a little time off since graduating from university so that I could get over some of my physical problems (unrelated to an ed or anything else, as I have other conditions).

Regarding the last line in the chapter, well, I wanted to highlight Harry's sensitivity, and compassion, because I think that in itself is very telling about his nature and is in some ways responsible for his troubles. He tends to worry about others to a very strong degree – and I think, deep down, regardless of whom he's dealing with, no matter what they have done in their lives - that he wouldn't want anyone to suffer.

**Ddamato**: _Ender's Game_ is a science fiction novel written by Orson Scott Card, and is the first in a long series frequently referred to as the Enderverse.

It starts out with the life story of a child named Andrew "Ender" Wiggin. The novel is set in the future, when couples rarely have more than one child, and anything more than two is basically considered scandalous. So Andrew, as the third child in his family, gets the name Ender for that reason: he will be the last child born to his parents. The story is about his removal from his family, and inclusion in a military program called the _International Fleet_, which trains strategically gifted youngsters in combat engagement, so that they can fight an alien race known as the formics and hopefully secure peace for the human race.

The formics (or the buggers, as they are nicknamed) had killed some human research scientists at a space outpost long ago, prior to Ender's birth, but have not since attacked. The humans, fearful of the _**threat**_ the buggers pose, decide to launch a full-scale war and kill the entire species outright. The novel is about how humans so frequently misinterpret the actions of others, due to our rash nature and seeming inability to see a situation from another's' point of view (as we are a very egoistic, self-centered species).

It is a story of how violence is borne out of our need to destroy anything that is different.

Eventually it is revealed that the formics did not kill out of malice, but simply due to the fact that they lacked a conception of "individual" – and so used the death of the individual humans as a way of showing their presence in space (in other words, sort of a morbid way of saying hello!) – something they couldn't do easily, given their lack of a spoken language (they share a hive mind, not unlike the Borg in _Star Trek_, and do not recognize individual formics, or individual humans as being entities. Only the one mind, the hive mind - matters to them).

When the formics are made to understand their horrific mistake, they grieve what has happened, and begin to see the murdered humans as EACH posing the equivalent to a "hive mind" – which leaves them in a deeply sorrowful state. However, despite their penitence, the die has been cast – and the humans still want blood.

The story is about xenocide of that mind, the formic mind, and in turn, Ender's involvement with the International Fleet and his role in the xenocide destruction.

But more than that, it is a story about the loss of childhood innocence, a story about regret, self-recrimination, and atonement. The next book in the series, _Speaker for the Dead_, is even more philosophical in tone (and my personal favorite for that reason), and is linked to the established theme set out in _Ender's Game_: Ender's need to atone for his sins, and speak of the dead.

Re: "a catch 22". The phrase basically means much the same thing as saying one is caught between "a rock and a hard place", or caught "between Scylla and Charybdis". If you are in a catch-22 position, you are in a position where nothing you can do will yield a favorable result. The old _"you're damned if you do, and you're damned if you don't"_ situation. Not acting, then, is just as bad as acting. There are no 'outs' – no ways in which to maneuver to yield a positive end result. That's what it means, essentially. Btw, _Catch 22_ is one of my sister's favorite books, but I found it a little too narcotic in feel, much like you did, I suppose.

As far as movies go, yes, I LOVE watching movies. All sorts of films, so long as the actors are competent. **My favorite film of all time, without a doubt, is Martin Scorsese's **_**The Last Temptation of Christ**_– the Criterion edition (not to be confused with the Mel Gibson movie that more recently came out – the two films are almost polar opposites! And I disliked_ The Passion of the Christ, _for the record_…_).

Anyway, _The Last Temptation of Christ_ is based on the book of the same name by Nikos Kazantzakis, and is a story of Jesus' reluctance to accept his destiny…a story of his fear and anger and yearning for a family, for a normal human existence. It's been a very controversial book (banned by the Catholic church at one point), and film, for those reasons – but as I am very liberal in my religious beliefs, it speaks to me much more than anything in which Christ seems more like God, and less like man. I find the inner struggle – to do what is best for all, despite fear – the most courageous story of all.

Generally speaking, it is typically atheists and agnostics that seem to enjoy this film the very most – so don't worry if you lack religious conviction. This isn't a story about religion. It's a character focused film, and isn't suited to people who have utmost faith in God's benevolence – but instead, a story for those who struggle and who have very strong worries and concerns about the spiritual world, their duties, their worth and their place and purpose on earth.

I also love the films _Rabbit Proof Fence_, _Project X, L'Effrontee, Whale Rider, Heat, Searching for Bobby Fischer, Rain Man, Unstrung Heroes, Good Will Hunting, Gladiator, The Neverending Story, I am David, I am Sam, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, The Breakfast Club_, _Kundun, Gattaca, Blade Runner, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Ordinary People_ (about teenage depression), _Watership Down, The City of Lost Children, The Sixth Sense, The Professional _(aka _Leon_), _The Shining, Little Man Tate, A Beautiful Mind, Proof, E.T. – the Extra Terrestrial, The Labyrinth, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Exorcist_…need I go on? ;) I tend to go for films about spirituality, discovering ones true nature, the nature of evil, or those films about overcoming obstacles. Generally speaking, I shy away from anything gory. My sister is the opposite – huge horror buff. I just can't stomach anything too gruesome.

**Fireflies**: I didn't want to use the Room of Requirement, mainly because (in my mind, at least), it is more of a sanctuary…that allows someone a place of refuge for what I believe is a good purpose. In other words, I don't think Harry would be granted entrance, given that he intends to self-abuse. I just cannot see him being granted access so that he can harm himself. Does that make sense? I mean, my reasoning? When the kids needed a place to practice – during the construction of Dumbledore's Army – they were rebelling against an unjust system, and their intentions were pure, good. But Harry's in a really bad place now, and I don't think anything else of a good nature – be it magical, or not – would help him along on the path to greater destruction. Even Snape, snark that he is, doesn't want to see Harry hurt himself. And he's about as cold as someone can get!

**ChasingAutumn**: thank you :) I was hesitant about using first person perspective for this story, but it really seemed to work – insofar as generating a more anxiety rich mood. I didn't want something passive – I wanted something to show Harry's pain in the immediate. Originally, I had been a little worried – wondering how well it would flow, but it's actually not been too hard to keep it in first person narrative format. Part of this, I think, comes from the fact that I've been in many of the same situations (cutting, purging, restriction etc.). I do think that helps when I'm trying to write about this stuff.

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**Chapter 6** – Heard a Voice

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_"Time before and time after, in a dim light, neither daylight. Investing form with lucid stillness. Turning shadow into transient beauty. With slow rotation suggesting permanence. Nor darkness to purify the soul."_ – **T.S. Eliot, **_**Little Gidding**_

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Five minutes to go.

Five minutes.

_Five…_

I can do a lot in five minutes.

I can make this horrible feeling go away… 

Standing amongst my teammates now, near the Quidditch entryway, I see Remus leave to take his place. He gives a soft smile and a quick thumbs up before he departs.

It'll take him a few moments for him just to walk up the back steps and find a seat in the main section of the concourse.

I know this much.

And with this knowledge comes another thought - intense and unremitting:

_I can get rid of it…_

The need to purge is almost overbearing.

It's the only thought on my mind right now. It's a thought greater than anything else occupying my mind at the moment: greater than this game, or of winning this game, or of defeating the Slytherins, or having fun.

The thought – '_I must __**purge'**_ – is blanketing everything else right now.

Blanketing Remus' kindness, his warnings, his insistence I eat. His relative contentment when I _did_ force the chocolate down. His encouraging comments are a dim warmth when compared to the ravishing heat of the purge. It's…torrential, the force – this _need_.

And then the thoughts return.

Louder now. More insistent:

_I can void it from my body …_

I know that the vomiting can happen quickly, and that I'll be left with a wonderful buzz afterwards. There is always this tingling that starts in my lower belly when I purge properly – and it makes its way through my body, coursing through my limbs, up into my brain. I feel – good afterwards, calm.

Peaceful.

I assess my immediate environment, and notice Katie tying up her laces. I give her a slight wave. She smiles warmly at me in response, standing up and brushing the soil off her knees.

"Hey Little H…are you ready to pummel those Slytherin crybabies?" she asks amicably.

Katie has been calling me Little H since forever, really. The _Little_ part came about because not only was I small for my age when I originally was made seeker, but also because I reminded her of Hephaestion – Katie's little brother (and the original "Little H", I suppose).

She even told me once that I even had the same messy hair, the same myopia and temperament as did her younger brother, and that I could be his Hogwarts stand in. So I guess, all in all, I just accepted it as a term of endearment, not to mention the fact that I yearned for inclusion. I had always wanted a real family, a close group of people who cared for me. I wasn't about to turn down her overture of friendship, simply because I found her pet name… less than optimal.

Of course, as I grew taller, the nickname became more amusing. Especially once I started to dwarf Katie in height - although, she still continued to call me that.

I've simply come to the conclusion that girls are sentimental, and that even silly little things, like nicknames, can mean a lot to them.

Of course, she's not completely clueless. She won't call me that all the time. Not, for example, during a game – which is something I appreciate given our proximity to sociopathic Slytherins who simply desire to smash into anything smaller. They would, of course, like nothing more than for me to fall off my broom, death be damned – if only to win a game.

For a moment, I get lost in the mechanics of playing the game, fond memories, before Katie begins straightening her cloak, fastening the ties so that it securely rests on her shoulders.

I have an idea, and nudge her gently with the edge of my Firebolt.

"Yeah?" she looks at me casually.

"I'm going to go adjust my outfit. I changed too quickly earlier, so I'm a little uncomfortable. It's sort of ridding up…"

She puts her hands up in over her ears in a sort of mock protest, feigning aggravation.

"_WAAAY _too much info there, H. I don't want to know what is irritating…well, _any part_ of you, 'k? So just do what you need to do, and keep me out of it."

I grin at her, amused and she laughs, realizing that I'm goading her.

"You're such a little wench."

My smile widens, before she turns serious.

"Just hurry up. We have…" she checks her watch, "seven minutes before the game starts.I want you back here in five."

_**She's getting a little bossy. Considering I'm the captain…**_

But I'm not one to pull rank, and I know that she's ultimately only focused on winning the game.

"I'll only need two", I supply evenly.

_**I hope…**_

She nods, and goes back to fixing her cloak, and I dart to the partition then, grateful for the Gryffindor gold's and burgundy's, which are creating a beautiful cover of silk for me right now.

Pushing the cool fabric to one side, I settle myself into an area underneath the seating booths. Glancing upwards, I can see light pierce the cracks of the wood. I can see feet shuffling and a horde of people making their way across the planks at the top of the arena.

Looking down to my feet, I can see black, dry dirt. The smell in here is musty from the lack of air circulation and worsened by the faint hint of cedar wafting around from the wooden steps and general construction of the stands.

I bend over, resolutely, realizing that I don't have time to waste, before I drop to my knees, clench my stomach and focus on the task at hand. Something deep within me gurgles, sounding not unlike a sputtering engine; a sloshing sound from liquid, and liquefied food. A deep rumbling.

Taking my pointer and middle finger, I plunge them quickly to the back of my throat, and wince when I scratch the roof of my mouth with my nails. I then wait until I can no longer tolerate the sensation or deny the need to gag any longer.

The first attempt doesn't yield anything. Just dry heaving.

So I try again – harder – and wiggle the digits to create a fluttering in the back of my throat, which increases my need to vomit. After about 10 seconds, I cough violently, and a small amount of dark warmth jumps up my throat and pours out of my mouth. I spit out the remnants, disappointed with the small amount of sick – only a small rivulet of chocolate was my reward for the effort. My heart is already pounding fiercely in my chest.

_**Not enough….again! Try again!**_

I try a third time, and then a fourth, more forcefully with each take, paying less attention to keeping quiet – or trying to keep quiet – before I am finally rewarded with a full stream of purged chocolate.

As the last of the shudders die down, I laugh softly into the grass, and focus perversely on the pool of acidified Honeyduke's, before I kick the vomit with my foot and mash it into the earth.

I smile, delightedly, too happy with myself.

"H?" – I can hear Katie calling. "You okay?"

_**Shit! Did she hear me?**_

At this point, I almost don't care. I can chalk up getting sick to nerves if she asks, and I'm still high on the post-purge euphoria.

"Harry!"

She's more insistent this time.

I swallow. My throat hurts. It stings. Like I have a strep throat or something.

"Yeah! Right _there_!" I call out to the best of my ability, which sets me off coughing again.

_**I hope my voice didn't sound too shrill…**_

I give a once over at my 'work', before turning back and exiting out to the main holding section where my teammates have congregated. In a few moments time, the doors will be opened, and we will all get to fly out to the main arena, for the start of the game. Until then, we have nothing to do but wait in relative darkness for the call of the buzzer.

Katie is giving me an odd look - not quite accusatory, but…_studious_.

Demelza sits on her haunches and is fiddling with the buttons on her cloak.

Ginny sits to the left of both of them, motionless, eyes downcast. It is Ginny's response, or lack of response – that I currently find most disconcerting.

Farther away - and wrapped up in their insane inventions - Jimmy and Ritchie play their stupid knuckle game – the proper name being something I've long since forgotten (given my complete lack of interest in whacking someone as hard as I can, and earning points if I make them wince).

Yet, I watch for a moment in morbid fascination as Jimmy smacks Ritchie, who then whimpers, draws back a hand, and brings a bleeding knuckle to his mouth to nurse. Cormac calls a foul, and the trio is soon at it again.

"Harry?" Katie's voice slices through the air…cleanly, confidently.

"Hmm?"

_**What?**_

"You okay, Harry?" she clarifies.

I check my watch. I was only gone three minutes. We still have a couple to go.

"Yeah…sure. _Fine_. Why?"

Katie looks mildly concerned. Not _excessively _concerned but there is something there. Some look which I don't care for. Some sort of expression I usually associate with Hermione – right before she solves an advanced arithmancy problem.

"Were you sick?" she asks directly.

I decide to go with an honest response.

"Yeah. Too much sugar. Remind me not to devour chocolate and fizzing whizzabees again before a match."

She smirks at that.

"Well, so long as you catch the snitch. And I guess it's better you get sick when you're on the ground. Did you know that Oliver once puked on me in the air? That was so gross."

Demelza gives a high-pitched squeal at that information, before she dissolves into a chorus of _ewws_, and Katie laughs.

Ginny, however, is still awfully quiet. She looks…anxious, maybe.

_**Sad. She looks sad…**_

I don't like it one bit.

"So what about you guys, hmm?", I turn towards Ginny, "Psyched to win this game, Gin?"

She shrugs, and fastens a button closed.

But she still doesn't look at me.

_**Great…**_


	7. Numb

**Chapter 7** – Numb

------

"_History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again." __–_ **Maya Angelou**

------

The buzzer sounds, and we are off.

It's amazing, really, how time seems to stop when you first lift into the air. Only seconds, nanoseconds before – on the ground, rooted on topsoil. But when you fly, you're free. It's a feeling of touching out to the sublime, reaching to the sun, the world beyond, higher and higher. _Ecstasy_.

You feel almost weightless. Your body merges with the broom and becomes something else – or maybe it's simply the fact that being in flight changes how you feel and appreciate the world: wind, the howl in your ears, the speed, the danger… the lack of presence in your body, as if you are pure energy, pure spirit - whenever you twist and loop and dive.

And that's where I am now – in that heavenly space, that _not quite real_ space. Being up here – away from down on the ground, with the pain, the worries, sadness, cruelty…well, it beats everything. It beats sleeping. It beats cutting. It beats purging.

It beats talking, certainly, because talking drives everything home. You feel better having someone know, someone support you – but it's hard to talk, it's hard to share those thoughts and feelings, to share those…violations. It's like reopening a wound, and I know it's supposed to help in the end – supposed to help with the grief - but it also causes fresh shame, new and hot anger – anger that you thought had died, but which has simply been churning away beneath the surface for a long time, now ready to emerge. Ready to surge out, like lava, like some destructive burning force – wrecking everything in its path.

I think back to Ron, and how I had gone off on him, and for a moment I feel – guilt – scorch me, sting, well up deep inside.

Then I hear Malfoy's voice hollering out over the gusts, the winds. It centers me – causes me to come back to the present, allows me to focus on the game, my goals – the immediate, the now – not the past, not the future with the _what if's_ and the _could be's_.

Malfoy is streaking along, going faster than I am, worming his way around a goal post as Ritchie tries to score a shot with the Quaffle. I am, of course, much too far away at the current time to be of much aid, so I continue searching for the Snitch, but I keep my eyes on the others, and Ginny…

Who is currently beating off a bludger.

She doesn't even have a Quaffle. She's nowhere _near_ a Quaffle, and here some Slytherin lug is trying to knock her off her broom.

I see red.

She sees me, out of the corner of her eyes, and turns as I approach; then I see the bludger hit her with his stick – deliberately or not, I'm not sure.

And then…she is falling…her broom moving slightly in the air, quivering magically, charmed, unoccupied now - and she – plunging with both hands outwards…

"Ginny!!"

Like a stone, down she goes... too fast, too fast.

_**Can'tthink!toofastohgodohgod…**_

I dart and twist and plunge after her as rapidly as is possible.

She's just ahead of me…just out of reach.

_Screaming. Strangled screaming. Fear. Wind. Sunlight. Can't see. Ginny!_

And I reach for her then, edging myself closer and closer to the end of the broom, my fingertips reaching out for her cloak, her hands flailing, grabbing for me too, trying to latch on, whimpering, and my heart is racing, so fast, scared. But I have her. I am holding her arm now. I have her.

"Harry!" her face is streaked with tears, he can see it – somehow. Or hear it maybe. The tears in her cry, in her voice.

We pull up, slightly and not a moment too soon, the broom's end hitting the tops of the training field – the force throwing Ginny off, tumbling like a rag doll through the air, rolling, stopping.

That's the last thing I see before I too hit the ground, with such force that I feel something implode. Pain, blinding, seizing and I can't cry, _**it's too intense**_ – and everything goes brilliantly bright then, like an atom bomb being activated. The color drains from the sky, and the sounds of the people, the wind, the cries, the feet, the birds, the whistles – it all stops – falls away, leaving only white noise, a buzzing in my head.

I feel sick now, as if I have the stomach flu, and I look down at my stomach, which is bulging - protruding outwards perversely - and I cup the groteqsue swelling with my hand, the other numb, falling to my side lifelessly (broken?). I can taste blood in my mouth, I can feel it coating my teeth and I reminded for a second of when I chomped down deliberately on my lips, and the blood then - the memory overlapping with the now, the present. I feel confused. Unreal. I am no longer real.

_**This is different. **_

But the thought leaves as the pain begins to subside – and I can think a little more clearly then. Just a little bit, but it's enough.

"Gin..n…", I can hear myself croak the word out, and I try to look for her, try to see, but I can't, because everything is darker, and sticky and red, and I realize that it's my blood - streaming down my head like a river current, pulsing over my face, my eyes, causing me to blink back the fluid, the dark redness which is obfuscating my sight.

I wipe at it hurriedly, my hands feeling weighed down, like lead has been injected into my body. It's hard to see, even with the blood gone – everything is swimming. It's hard to focus.

_**Ginny! Where is she? Oh god, sweet jesus…oh please, oh please…**_

The sound comes back quickly - the color too, and everything is in commotion. I hear screaming, wailing, from different sources – from many mouths, many people. I think I hear Hermione's voice – I _know_ I hear Ron's.

I don't hear Ginny's.

I don't hear her moans of pain, nor sobbing…**nothing**.

Then I know why.

I _see_ why.

_I see her. _

Her small body crumpled by the wooden stands – having slammed into it, hitting it, being stopped far too abruptly given the high speeds we had both been traveling when we hit the soil.

Ron next – I see him right afterwards - his auburn hair bobbing up and down like a red flare as he runs towards her. Everything seems to be in slow motion, time altered, her name on his lips sounding harsh and horrible and far too high-pitched.

He's crying now. I can hear it as he reaches her side. I can see him shaking.

_She's not moving…_

He's rolling her over, and she isn't gasping in pain, isn't protesting.

_She's not moving! Oh god, please! Please, please God, oh please let her be alright. I'll do anything you want – ANYTHING you want – just please…_

Her eyes are closed.

She's so pale.

And Ron is shaking her now, his voice a litany of screams punctuated by the terrible stream of "Ginny's" – over and over and over and over.

"Please Ginny, oh please wake up", and he's sobbing harder now, "Gin, please…"

But Ginny isn't waking up. Her arms are limp, her eyes aren't fluttering open, her legs aren't moving of their own volition – she merely shakes back and forth as Ron SHAKES her back and forth.

I feel cold then, so, so cold – like I've ingested ice water. Like I'm in the North Pole. I'm so cold, unfathomably cold, and I cannot move, I can't go to her. I'm terrified of what I will find. I'm terrified that she's dead, but if I go, and she is – then it's real – then she IS dead and it's definite, and I can't…face that.

I move to a sitting position, and I feel something jutting into my side.

_**My broom…**_

It's broken – splintered apart into several sections, one of which has broken off.

I've landed on it. The edge of the firebolt has fractured off, and the tip has been skewered into my belly, and as I turn over, a fresh wave of blood pulses out onto the ground. More blood spilling outwards, on the grass, from my impaled body than all the cuts I've ever made have ever bleed, combined. I'm cold and tired and I cannot see Ginny anymore either, because Remus is down by her side, blocking her from my line of sight; Hermione is at Ron's side as well. She's pulling him away from Ginny, extricating Ginny from his hold, wrapping her arms around his waist, his back, holding his head down to her shoulder, and he's crying - the cries like screams, each one so horrible and sharp.

And I know it's bad then. I know it's got to be bad for him to cry like that.

"Ginn-y", I try to say, try to scream it out loud - forcefully to wake her up, but it comes out soft, like a whisper, blanketed and covered by the wind.

Hermione, Ron…Remus…I need to be there too…need to be near them, need to help Ginny…need to…

_**Ginny… please. Hold on…hold on!**_

I struggle to get up, to go to her - but hands are on me then; cool, calloused, under my shirt, circling the area of flesh on my belly... where the wood has entered inside me like a plant stake.

Before I know it, the hands are lifting me up – high into the air, and blackness swirls around me, embraces me like a fog. A robe. Black, and faintly sweet, like medicine and the dungeons, like…

_Snape._

"Ginny!" I cry more loudly this time, reaching out in the air, absently reaching towards her as Snape clutches me, brings me towards his body, one arm supporting my spine and upper back and the other looped under my legs, my own arms dangling useless and heavy.

"Gin." and I cough then, repeatedly, the air leaking from my lungs, the ability to say anything leaving me with each passing moment.

"_**Shssh",**_ I hear him say - a low rumble, like thunder, before his forceful command, "Do not move. Do not struggle – you are hurt very badly, and you're loosing too much blood. Just hold still, and hold on."

I need to get him to stop walking – to take me back. I know if I can touch her, hold her, I can make her wake up. I need to touch her. I need to hold her.

"Prof..es..sor", another cough and broken sounds, "Ginny…", my voice like a leaky tire.

"Don't talk!" he hisses, his eyes coming to lock on mine. He looks…pallid and frightened.

_**Me…he's frightened for me…**_

But that doesn't make sense. My belly is only cut. Ginny is the one that isn't moving.

"O…k…I'm…"

_**Please take me back!**_

"Be quiet Harry!" more forcefully then, his arms wrapping around me even more tightly, yet gently, his steps light so as not to shake me.

But it doesn't work. The movement still affects me – still makes me feel ill, the nausea of a few moments past back with a vengeance, and I cough again, bringing scarlet sputum up – phlegm and redness. Blood streaked heat from my lungs, and another cough – more blood, unlike the sputum – rich, brilliant, bold...and a warmth in my belly too.

"Oh bloody Merlin!" I hear his cuss, and he drops down to one knee, slowly lowering me to the earth.

"Sna…?"

I'm so tired, but my body is shaking now, back and forth, back and forth, a pressure in my lungs, and then – more red, more coughing, and I bring my hands to my face to keep from spraying my Potions professor with my blood. More coughing, and as I pull my hands away, I see thousands of little red specks, like I've been blasted with a red spray from an atomizer can.

His eyes are huge now – huge, dark, scanning me, removing my cloak, and for one horrible second I forget that I'm hurt, that I'm bleeding, that a wooden stake is half-way through my belly, my intestines. The physical pain leaves, the knowledge that Snape is trying to help me vanishes, and his eyes change, and the times change, and Quidditch falls away, Hogwarts fades away – and I'm back in my room again, the pain in my belly from hitting the floor, the blood on my face from hitting the wall and the lamp crashing down on me, and my arms pinned to my side, Uncle Vernon on top of me.

He's removing my cloak: _**my clothes…**_

He's lifting up my shirt: _**pulling down my pants…**_

Cool hands roaming my body, seeking something: _**fevered touches, down, lower…**_

I'm screaming and the hands hold me tighter, gently…

_**Gently?**_

And Snape's face comes back to me, pinched and sorrowful - his arms holding me down, his eyes glancing from me – to somewhere else, and I hear him yell, I hear him ask for help, and then another person – Remus – Remus then, his arms replacing Snape's, pinning me to the ground, and I…

_**DON'T TOUCH ME! OHGODOHGODOHGODOHGOD…**_

And Remus isn't moving, isn't letting me up, his arms holding me still, his body straddling my waist, legs on either side, and I kick and I shout and I try to move, and then all of a sudden I CAN'T MOVE, I'm immobile.

I've been stunned – so I cannot move at all. Remus standing up, getting off me, and then dropping back down to a semi-seated position, picking up one lifeless hand – one useless arm – stroking it, small concentric circles, and I try to focus on that, and count the rotations, slow my breathing.

But it's hard, because Snape is still removing my clothing, and I cannot help but cry out (_I'm scared..._) – the sound semi-muffled by the spell – exiting my body in spurts – stops and starts, not a proper scream. Remus's face, the words, _"We've just got to take a look at your stomach kiddo – you're bleeding. We need to stop the bleeding. You're bleeding inside."_

_**Bleeding inside?**_

_**No.**_

_**Not again.**_

_**Bleeding inside…**_

_uncle Vernon moving. Him…_

_inside me…thrusting…_

_his sounds, his sounds…_

_and mine…crying, screaming…_

_pain rips through me_

_someone hurting me again…_

_uncle?_

_blood, stickiness – I'm ripping…_

_in two…in two…_

_bleeding…_

_**bleeding inside…**_

"Harry! Stay with us!", Snape's voice – I can hear Snape's voice, and I come back.

I can remember again.

Quidditch. I was hurt.

Remus is trying to help me. Snape is trying to help me.

_**I'm at Hogwarts…**_

The air is cool. The sky is gray. I see orange and red trees.

_**It's not summer? I'm…?**_

I'm at school.

I'm with my friends, and Remus.

But I am still conscious, still aware, still painfully aware of everything: the smell of blood, the need to expel it from my belly, and Snape pulling at my pants, removing my top from my pants, quiet, determined, forcing open the cloak – looking for something.

_**The wood. I was hurt on the wood… **_

Remus, saying something over and over now, and I cannot focus, and the panic is too much, and I CANNOT MOVE.

A smaller hand, a third being – Hermione – her eyes rimmed pink _(crying! She's been crying!),_ crouching down, turning to Remus, taking over – putting her hand on mine, his withdrawing, and I feel okay then. I feel safer. Hermione is safe.

Hermione is small, and tender…and…

_**Female…**_

I'm ashamed to think it – even for a second. I trust Remus…

"Harry…" I hear Hermione begin, her thumb moving over my thumb, her fingers interlocked – letting me know she's with me; she's not going anywhere.

"Ginny's…hurt really badly - like you. But she's alive…she's…"

_Ginny is alive?_

_**She's gonna be okay. **_

_**Ginny will be okay…Madame Pomfrey will take care of her…everything will be okay…**_

"Don't mention Miss Weasley, Hermione. Keep him calm – can you do that much? He's not in good shape", Snape barks, and then to me, "I do not want to remove the object right now – you will bleed too much. So we have to take you to the infirmary, do you understand?", Snape again.

"S-p-e…spell?"

"You were moving too much – you **must not** move. You have been hurt severely, and moving is making the bleeding worse. The spell was necessary – to keep you from thrashing about," the voice is clipped, short. Irritated.

"_Take…o…ff…re…move?"_ I question, fresh pain wracking my body, my belly engorged with blood.

But he doesn't – and neither does Remus, or Hermione. They merely help Snape lift me from the ground once more; they tilt my body into his, so he can carry me easily. I feel new dizziness at being lifted once more, and something deep within snaps – not like a snap, actually – but a snipping sensation like ripping of cloth, cotton threads being ripped down the middle, edges frayed.

I feel the snip, I hear it too - loud and sickening, and I feel queasy and lightheaded. I hear Hermione call my name, her questioning tone, and the sky goes black this time instead of white. And then everything fades and there is no more Snape, no more Remus, no more Hermione.

-------

**A/N:** the next chapter is going to be delayed a little bit.

**Anon:** thanks for reviewing! I've decided to post my replies at the end of the chapter now – does that help:)

**Pip3**: Have you tried long distance running? I love to run, when I feel physically up to speed…because it gives me a similar rush. Not quite so intense as with cutting, but it's there. You have to run for a solid half hour, minimally, though…before those endorphins seem to be released (and before you experience the classic "runner's high"!)

**loveseverussnape, redkitsuneflames, scorpiogirl, Patricia8, breannatala, xcloudx, yeeww, mandywinchester :** thanks you guys! Y'all rock! **mwah!** ;)

**Crazykids121:** thanks a bunch! That's so sweet of you. :) Re: _Ender's Game_ – yes, it's an incredible series, isn't it?? What else do you like to read?

**Fireflies:** a bit of a twist, nyet? To think he did fall – but not because of his issues, not because of dizziness – but something else.

**Livingiseasywitheyesclosed:** waves! Thanks for reading :) Personally, my favorite character of the series is Harry, but I LOVE the Harry/Hermione friendship (maybe because I like the Daniel Radcliffe/Emma Watson chemistry onscreen? _That might be part of it_ lol) However, I also think Remus is a truly interesting character. I appreciate how Harry has these different mentors. I think Sirius seemed a little rougher, raw around the edges – and understandably so. But Remus is a little more…suited to the position of aiding Harry now, with these new problems – in the wake of Sirius' death. He seems like a very consoling character. But unlike Ron, or Hermione, or any of the other teens – he won't just allow Harry to keep self-destructing. He's an adult, and highly responsible…and he's now taking responsibility for Harry, looking out for him. And I like that idea.

**Hopie**: I'll try to get the next chapter up as soon as possible. Busy time right now. :( (Trust me…I wish I could just stay home and write to my heart's content!) But I'll see this story through…I won't leave it a plot bunny. I promise.


	8. Recovery

**Chapter 8** – Recovery

------

A journey of a thousand miles always begins with one step.  
_-- Ancient Egyptian Proverb._

------

I awaken to darkness, and for one panicky second, I fear that I'm blind.

Then I see the small red beeping of a machine… flashing rhythmically like a Christmas tree light.

_On, off, on, off…_

Patterned, regular – and it is an assurance of my sight – that I am not, in fact, blind. So it is grounding, and calming.

And sounds too: every time the flash beats, a noise erupts from the machine, like a birds tweet, though mechanical.

I let my gaze fall back down to my own person – to my body, the immediacy of the space I occupy - and realize that I'm in a bed… a bed with a metal railing, keeping me secure.

There is a pink, cotton blanket wrapped up over my body too.

I'm wearing unfamiliar clothing - odd pajamas. Dark blue, with little white dots all over them (they almost look like snowflakes) and from what I can make out in the relative blackness, they are short sleeved.

I feel my face grow warm, knowing that whoever changed me, and whoever has seen me since – has seen the marks. The scars. It would have been impossible **not** to see them… right on display, in wonderful, intense Technicolor. Up close and personal.

Squinting now, and sure enough – there they are.

Illuminated brightly against my pale skin. In this shade, they look charcoal against the pale flesh of my forearm.

My gaze continues to sweep back and forth until I see something jolting: an IV in my hand – the needle taped into a vein, a bandage spotted with red from where the needle punctured the skin.

_Hospital…I'm in a hospital._

Then it comes back to me in waves.

_Quidditch. Ginny. Falling. The ground. The broom edge cutting into my belly. Snape carrying me. Me crying for Ginny. _

_**Oh god – Ginny!**_

_**Where is she? Is she okay?**_

I pull my hand back sharply; I need to get out of this bed. I need to find her.

Moving quickly, I tug on the IV thoughtlessly, and rip it from my skin, causing a thin trail of blood to flow from the wound site and onto the bedding. Sanguine droplets hitting the pink blanket, soaking into the fibers, swirling in like dye.

I bend forward then, to grasp my injured limb, instinctively bring it to my mouth to nurse it, and stop the flow of bleeding. As I move, a sharp pain lances through my belly and I let out a muffled cry.

"Harry?"

A groggy voice, and a rustling, - like someone standing up, the creaking of a chair against linoleum - and my eyes try to take in more and more – my sight still not having totally adjusted to the darkness yet.

It sounds like…

"_Remus?" _

His name comes out awkwardly, and raspy – my throat so dry, so terribly parched.

"Hold on. Don't speak. Let me get you some water."

It _is_ Remus, and he's at my bedside then. I can see his lanky form hovering over me – his face looking – creased – almost as if he's slept on his jacket, and the zipper made an indentation into his cheek. His eyes are swollen with fatigue, and dark underneath, and he proffers me the glass before adding, under his breath_, "shit."_

I take the water with my good hand, the other tucked against my chest protectively.

"Damnit. You've pulled out your IV line," he begins. "Hold on – I'm going to just go get a nurse. I'll be right back, ok?"

I start to protest – and shake my head – but stop, feeling woozy. I don't want that IV back in me. I'm already trickling red everywhere, and my hand is purple-blue – bruised - from where they've stabbed me the first time.

But he's gone, so I simply finish off the rest of the contents of the glass.

I'm still thirsty of course, even after gulping down the first glass, and I'm looking for the pitcher when he returns again with a young nurse in tow.

_**That was fast…**_

"Hey love – good to see you awake. We were starting to worry about you."

_**Who's this?**_

"You look confused. I guess that's understandable, hey?"

I try to push back against the bed – try to put distance between myself and Remus and this stranger who has the capacity, the eagerness, to shove the IV back into my arm.

"My name's Katie, and I'm one of your nightshift nurses. You're at Mount Haven Memorial. You were hurt in an accident, do you remember?"

_**Of course I remember… I don't think I hit my head.**_

_**Gin hit her head.**_

_**I landed on a skewer…**_

"Quidditch – we fell – hit the ground", another cough, my lungs tight, "Where's Ginny?"

Katie looks a little baffled, and Remus steps in quickly.

"Quidditch is the name of his team…Ginny is one of his team mates. He was worried about her…"

_**What is going on here?**_

_**Oh.**_

_**Ok.**_

_**It's a muggle hospital.**_

_Of course. That makes sense now._

_Not that I really care if I'm stuck in a bed at Saint whatsit memorial…or stuck in a bed at St. Mungo's… No skin off my nose…_

"Where is GINNY?" I ask, with as much force as I can muster. "Hermione said she was going to be okay! I want to see her!"

The force of speaking sets me off gagging again, and I spray my pajamas with more red, pushing the bloodied blankets away with me – fear curling up in my gut like smoke, filling me.

"Hey…it's okay sweetheart… Take it easy, love…"

_**No one has ever called me sweetheart before…**_

"…just lay still – you don't want to pull your stitches now, do you?…"

_**Stitches?**_

"Let's just get this back into you – quick and easy – and then I can try answering your questions. Sound like a plan?"

_No._

_It doesn't._

_I don't want the friggin' IV back in me._

"I **don't** want it", I scowl, pointing to the IV sack and finding myself transfixed by the needle, dangling now – a tip of clear liquid pealing out of the metallic edge.

Remus gives my nurse a knowing look, an_ I-told-you-so_ look, and I cringe, hating to be seen as a brat, or…a kid. A whiny, spoiled little baby.

I aim for composure.

"Why can't I just drink more water? I'll drink as much water as you want me to!"

It's obviously not a blood transfusion here – so I don't see how my request is so impractical. I'm awake now. I can drink water on my own. I don't need to be stuck with a bloody needle to get re-hydrated.

"Oh love – it's not just water. It's a saline-glucose mixture – it's intended to raise your blood sugar levels. And see this one here…?", and she points to a second bag, that I hadn't yet seen – hanging on the metal base with the other IV line. The second bag has a distinct yellow-ish cast to it, "this is the one we will use after we finish this first one here – this guy is a nutrient mixture…"

_**Wait. **_

_**Wait…wait…**_

_**What?**_

_**Nutrient mixture?!**_

"Nutrient mixture?" and my heart is racing now. I can feel it hitting against my rib cage. _BAM, bam, bam._

Apparently, I have no privacy anymore, because at the moment – the little beeping machine speeds up too.

_**It's measuring my heart rate…**_

"**Harry**", Remus stresses slowly – realizing I'm getting upset.

"I don't WANT AN IV!" I choke up – feeling like everything is crumbling. Everything is being taken away from me. They didn't ask me. They just…shoved an IV needle into my arm – when I was fucking unconscious.

_**Oh god…they've been pumping me with sugar for hours. Days maybe…who knows how much damage they've done!?**_

"How long?" and my voice breaks.

"Harry…what? How long…what?" Remus is clueless.

"_**How long**_ has this blasted IV BEEN IN MY BLASTED ARM?!"

I glare at him – hurt, betrayed, scared, _**angry**_ – but he doesn't respond. Maybe he doesn't know how long – maybe he doesn't truly know the answer – yet…

I turn to my side, feeling a strange, convulsive fear lick at heart, though not before I see Remus turn back to Katie. Her face is a picture of dolor – deep sadness, her prettiness, and cheeriness, dulled by concern.

"Can you give us a moment, Katie?" Remus questions kindly.

And I assume she's nodding or something, because I hear her leave not two seconds later, the door softly clicking behind her.

"Listen kiddo," he starts.

"I'm _NOT _a kid", and I use my good arm to angrily push the IV stand away from my bed – sending the whole metal contraption barreling towards the door where it slams into the pine and gives off a delightful pinging sound.

"WATCH IT! Smarten up! You're in a hospital, Harry. This stuff is expensive – you can't just destroy equipment because you're in a bad mood!"

"I don't want to even _SEE_ it. I don't want it anywhere near me", seething now.

He tries again.

"Look. I know you are scared right now..."

And I laugh at that. A contemptuous laugh – because I do NOT want Remus Lupin talking to me about fear. I'm sick of talking.

"I'm _NOT_ scared. Why does everyone always think I'm afraid?! _I'm angry._ **I'm pissed off!**"

He gets up, and walks to the window, pulling back the drapes, looking out to the world below. I feel the draft ease into the room. It's chilly.

"And you would have every reason in the world to be _both_ scared AND angry, wouldn't you? Sad too."

_**Damnit. WHY does he try to do this to me? Why?**_

"CUT IT OUT! I don't need you psychoanalyzing me here! I didn't want a fucking IV in my body, and is that _so weird_? Is that some sort of odd reaction? I didn't okay this, I didn't say anyone could! People just went ahead…"

He motions for me to stop rambling.

"And shut the window. PLEASE. It's freezing bloody cold in here now!"

He studies me briefly – cursorily.

"It's warm in here, Harry. Warm, but stuffy. Although I'm not surprised you find it chilly – the doctors told me you might. Do you want to know why? It's because you lack sufficient body fat to keep your temperature up."

I glare at him.

"I don't lack sufficient body fat! I lack sufficient blankets! I just lost…who knows how much blood…and you're harping on me about being underweight?"

He ambles back to the bedside, pulls his chair back and faces me directly.

"So you admit…that you're underweight? You admit that you have a problem with eating?"

"No! I'm…"

_**I hate you Remus… **_

_**I HATE you…**_

"You are 106 lbs Harry. Did you know that? Do you know how truly underweight that is for…well, _for starters_ a male…with a males musculature, and for your height?"

I break eye contact then, and kick my bed railing with my foot, before spitting out, "Is that my weight before or after you guys removed the stake from my belly?!"

_**Merlin! God! **_

_**Is there anything they HAVEN'T done to me while I was out of it?**_

He doesn't even respond to my outburst.

"You lost a ton of blood – _a lot_ of fluid. You needed a transfusion after the surgery just to normalize your electrolytes and bring up your blood glucose. Makes sense?"

_**WHAT?**_

_What surgery?_

"What are you talking about? What surgery?"

He steps slowly to one side of my bed, touches my side gently, motions with his hand, requests, "May I?"

I gulp down my discomfort, give him a look that must read _**back off**_, and raise **my own** shirt up and over my abdomen, craning my neck to see my belly.

There is a long, pink, gloriously hot pink line running from beneath my navel up to the tip of my ribs, and higher, and intersecting this very precise, very clinical cut – is a much more ragged and ugly scar.

_**From the broom. From where it entered…**_

I grin, morbidly, feeling oddly high.

"I guess God likes me lined…all these cuts look nice on me, don't they Remus? I mean, why not?"

His look is one of utter revulsion at my words, at their implication.

"_**Damnit **_Harry! DON'T YOU DARE talk about yourself like you're some…_**object**_. Yes, you have scars…but the surgery was to save your life. THIS line", and he very briefly, very gingerly touches the thin pink line, "this one…was to keep you going. They had to remove your spleen you know."

_**But of course I didn't know. How could I?**_

"This one," he points to the jagged line, "was from your attempt to save GINNY'S life. Which – you undoubtedly did."

Something like hope then – relief.

"And _these_", he points to the cuts on my arms – the darkest, and oldest, and most perverse of the cuts, "well – what were these… but an attempt to survive?"

I blink dumbly, feel myself starring at him.

_How can he even begin to understand the whys?_

A new sense of being…unsettled, more than before, more than ever; I pull the blanket up over my upper half - over my arms. I all at once feel totally naked and exposed.

"You see…some part of me…understands."

I find myself playing with the cotton blanket, tearing the loose thread that runs along the perimeter.

"Harry?"

I just want to be alone.

"Harry…look. They WILL come back soon. And they WILL put the IV line back in. Your body needs it, and they'll want to be quick about it all, and they might even try to make it seem like you have a choice – because they don't want to make things harder for you. I want nothing less than that for you…for you to feel empowered, to feel in control. But trust me – no matter what, that IV will be going back in. And you can pull it out again, and they'll put it back in – and likely make it so you CAN'T pull it out again, if you understand what I'm saying."

_**Damn them…they have no right…**_

"How can they do that? What gives them the right? If I say no?"

His breath is rapid – exasperation.

"You are very sick, and you're a minor, and in these matters - the state has control. You could go AMA if you were a little older, but…frankly, fortunately, that's not the case."

"Fortunately?! I thought you were on MY SIDE!" my voice laced with the hurt of betrayal.

"I am, Harry. TRUST me – I am…and you know what? So is Hermione, and so is Ron, and everyone else that has ever cared about you – they're all rooting for you. So listen to me…because when your doctor comes back, they WILL put the line in and if you fight…you'll just lose freedoms. Don't make it harder on yourself…no more than it has to be, okay?"

I scowl at the bedspread wanting to hit…

_Something._

_Someone._

I'm not sure what exactly - but something.

"Leave me alone", I hiss, at last.

He tilts his head to the side before saying, resolutely: "Please listen to what I've said – take it to heart. I'll…" he pauses, "I'll be back within the hour."

--------

**A/N: **Well – let's just say, I managed to get a hold of some writing time…which I didn't foresee a couple days ago; hence – was afforded the opportunity to get this chapter done in record time. (However, this chunk of time is a relative rarity - so please don't get accustomed to me updating this frequently!)

Re: responses - I'm stashing them at the end of my stories now…as that way you won't be accosted with my ramblings before the chapter even begins…and you'll have the opportunity to skip this stuff if you want ;).

-------

**Iheartmwpp**: thanks for reading :-)

When you say that you always thought that things like ed's and cutting were bad…well, I'm _**relieved **_to know that you see them as such. **You **_**should**_** think of them as being bad**. They certainly aren't healthy. And I realize that they seem completely…bizarre and unfathomable 'options' to most people. Because how does someone ever get it into their head that slicing up their skin is 'good', right? That's the question. (And trust me, those that commit these actions do understand how strange it seems – but it becomes compulsory, almost.)

The thing is – I don't believe those with ed's or a history of si'ing really love the feeling of pain at all. _Not truly_.

But they prefer the feeling of physical pain – controlled and swiftly applied – to the feeling of being out of control, or of being consumed by emotional pain. To those who haven't experienced that same level of pain, it may not be easily understood.

Or to those who have experienced great loss, but have _not been abused_ – grief, or emotional distress may be equally painful, but the person hasn't been convinced of their 'worthlessness', so they would never naturally think to harm themselves. That idea would be so completely foreign – _**horrific**_, even – that it wouldn't even present itself as an option.

And I think that in the case of most self-injurers (maybe not all – I cannot speak for all, or even more than myself, but I know this is common) – _many have been abused_. Pain is familiar to them. They may even be addicted to it by that point – and I know that sounds strange, but people do become addicted to situations, setups, the adrenalin rush of pain and the abatement of pain. This is especially true to those who have been abused, repeatedly, in childhood - doubly so when the abuser is a trusted source, such as a father.

I think healing only starts when you truly believe that you are worth everything, regardless of your past. Because you can eat more, you can choose other ways of coping rather than taking a razor to your arms – but what have you really accomplished _**for your soul**_ if even a small part of you believes that it was ever okay to do that to yourself?

To answer your question: no, I have never been raped. However, I was repeatedly abused in early childhood (between the ages of 1 and 4), and some of it came _pretty damn close_ to rape. But that's all I'm going to say about that…

I also know people who were raped (both in childhood and in adulthood), and I've come to realize that adolescent/adult victims definitely have a greater sense of… I'm not sure…_shame_, perhaps? Children tend to be much more fearful of anyone bigger afterwards - adults, especially (most typically) adult males – and oftentimes see sexual abuse much more like acts of physical abuse. It's harder for them to differentiate between the two forms of abuse, which is actually better in the long run, as sexual abuse is rarely about sex, and usually about controlling, humiliating, belittling another – or creating suffering. So in that sense, it is no different from emotional abuse. It's a form of spiritual abuse more than anything else…

For the record, many of those who suffer with anorexia _also _have a history of sexual abuse.

It actually makes a lot of sense because starvation slows down and eventually stops all secondary sex development. So if someone doesn't want to be seen in a sexual manner, and they starve for that reason – it's actually a very sensical, very logical approach. For this reason, people with a history of abuse may starve to actually distort their bodies, to cause them to remain small or underdeveloped, or to feel control (not because they want to necessarily be 'thin', and in this sense – there really are dozens of reasons for why one may be attempting to lose weight).

Cutting is closely tied to abuse as well, but is usually a way of venting – dispelling anger or negative emotions, as it doesn't alter the body in the same way as does starvation. One fixes the problem of unwanted sexual attraction (or threat of such), and the other takes care of the actual emotions: sadness, anxiety – and especially rage and deep anger.

Finally – no, I couldn't kill of Ginny. That would have been too cruel! All Harry has is his friends…his constructed 'family', and Ginny is one of the people he cares most about in the entire world. I wouldn't do that to him. :(

**Angel74**: there will be more. This story is nowhere near done. ;-) Thanks for responding! I love reading reviews!

**Crazykids**: blushes Why thank ya! Much appreciated ;)

I like Stephen King a fair bit too. He's wonderful at generating an eerie feel. I think I liked_** The Shining **_the very best out of all his books thus far. I also liked _**Firestarter **_– because I'm genuinely intrigued with the subject of pyrokinesis (and telekinesis). Re: Orson Scott Card. Have you read _**Ender's Shadow**_? That one is even more fun! _Ender's Game_ is the one that started everything, but I love reading about the events from Bean's perspective – as he is still my favorite character, after Valentine.

**Spuffy, Atsukikomi, RedKitsuneFlames, loveseverussnape, wynnleaf, patricia8, scorpiogirl, livingiseasywitheyesclosed, breannatala, Pip3:** thanks for your continued support, guys:-)

**Fiatluxanna**: _**The X-Files**_ was a television show that aired in 1993 and wrapped up about 10 years later. It was a science fiction series that centered, originally, on the character of psychologist-turned federal agent Fox Mulder – who believes in the paranormal, and who has ever since he lost his little sister in an apparent alien abduction when she was 8 and he was 12.

He is teamed up with a female FBI agent named Dana Scully, who is a Catholic medical doctor turned FBI-agent, and who definitely does _**not**_ believe in little green men ;)

It was a very dark, atmospheric show, very angsty, and wonderfully crafted – and featured the most interesting friendship between an adult male and female that I have _ever_ seen on tv. However, I loved the early seasons best: when Mulder was "Spooky Mulder" and wore glasses and rambled on about Oxford, and Scully wore tweed outfits and the show had a quasi-geekish feel to it, reminiscent of, say, _CSI_ in season 1, or _SG1_ in seasons 1 and 2. Back when the show was a cult classic rather than insanely popular – that's when it was at its best, imho.


	9. It Begins

**Chapter 9** – It Begins

-------

Remus pads away gently, leaving me in the darkened space. I look outside and realize that it must be early evening – the sun having just set. Twilight time. Which, given the fact that it is autumn probably means that it is no later than 5 or 5:30.

I look down at my arm, still IV free, and push back the covers, briefly examining my surgery cut with a sort of intense concentration.

I don't like it. It's too big and garish and ugly. And I didn't make it. I wasn't even awake.

Kicking back the heavier comforter with the base of my feet, I tenderly roll to my side, and wince as a new, distinct feeling hits me.

It's not coming from my stomach this time. It's coming from…

_**Oh god…**_

I feel bile lurch into my mouth.

I can feel it – something – inside.

_Again._

Nausea overtakes me, and I can't help it.

Even though I've been doing it every day, it seems I manage to get sick again. This time, it's completely involuntary – completely outside of my control. Hell, I didn't even realize I was going to get sick, until I DID get sick and…

Now I've vomited on myself.

_**Way to go, you freaking disgusting bastard…**_

Footsteps then – I hear them from the hallway outside, and my room door is opened.

"Harry?" and it is Katie again…the ever-chipper nurse.

Remus is just to her right, slightly behind her, and a third person – a man – enters this time as well.

Shame, intense, scorching, and I know I must be scarlet red.

"I…uh…"

Katie gives me a sympathetic smile.

"You got sick?"

I moan miserably, shut my eyes closed tightly despite wanting to appear okay – cool with everything.

"Are you nauseous?" she asks frankly, and the man that-is-not-Remus just watches her as she approaches me.

"Sort of… I," the damn monitor is racing now, the _beep-beep-beep's_ tripling in frequency.

The man asks carefully, "Do you know what set off the attack?"

I can feel my breathing speed up – remembering what happened to scare me.

I turn, uncomfortably – and I can still feel it. It's still there. Intruding inside me…from…

I need to know, but I don't want to ask.

"Is there…something inside me?" I ask, but it comes out faint, high pitched. The man is staring at me intently, taking in my fear, my upset, and I hate the fact that I'm being analyzed.

_**Fuck my emotions**_.

I don't want to get upset, but ALL I've done lately is get upset.

_**One bloody thing after another…**_

The man continues to look at me with this unreadable, yet penetrating expression, and then paces over to my bed.

"Do you mean the Foley?"

I don't know what that means, what a 'Foley' is, and I'm not sure I _WANT_ to know, as Remus' head shoots up at that word – Foley – and his eyes narrow. So obviously he has some idea what it is, and it doesn't seem good.

"What? Why?" he asks simply, his tone hard. "No one told me about this."

The man shrugs noncommittally.

"It's simply routine procedure after an operation – especially when we don't know how long the patient is going to be out for – not to mention, Harry was set up with a glucose IV. After a few hours, without having some way to expel the waste…well…it's a necessary evil, I suppose."

I'm…starting to get the picture here. It's not very pleasant.

"You put something inside me…so I could go to the washroom?" and I feel my face scrunch up, going red again, as I can always tell when I'm blushing.

I don't even want to know WHERE it was put exactly, although – from shifting about, I have some idea. I can feel it coming…exiting…from…_that…place_, and I can't help it… Before the next second, I'm gagging again – fresh waves of nausea crashing in, and Remus is at my side almost immediately, with a small green bucket under my mouth as I do, in fact, get sick for the umpteenth time this week.

Pure acid erupts: bile, a little clear liquid, foam, and that's it. Which is understandable, given my fasting.

When he pulls the bucket away, he gives me a short, tired smile.

"You've been in the wars lately, haven't you, kiddo?"

I let the "kiddo" slide; I'm coming to see the term as Remus' way of expressing endearment. Sort of like my team mates, and the _Little H_ nickname.

"Yeah…Moony", I say – trying to show that my anger from earlier wasn't…directed at him.

His eyes light up at the nickname, and his smile broadens, as if relieved with my tone, my choice to use that name.

Turning to my ever exuberant nurse, he states, "I know I've asked this a couple times now…and I don't mean to be a pain…but can we have just a moment to get tidied up?"

'_**We'? You mean me, Remus…**_

Katie pushes her blonde hair behind her ears, and sashays over to a small closet opposing my bed. I can see, when she opens it, that there is a small, possibly portable, television set inside, a series of shelves filled with different things – clothes, and pillowcases and towels.

She finally locates a clean shirt – the exact same blue and white pj top that I'm already wearing - an exact replica of the one I sicked all over - and hands it to Remus.

The elder man then departs with her, before quickly closing the door. This time I hear more than just the normal clicking sound of a door being shut – I hear a high-pitched buzzing sound.

_**A lock?**_

My stomach flops. I don't want them to come back.

Remus' head lilts to the side slightly, in a manner suggesting he has heard the sound too – before he tosses me the shirt.

"I'm assuming you want to do that yourself", I take the shirt gratefully, and try to get changed single handedly. Though I didn't notice it before – my arm is throbbing far too badly to be simply from pulling out an IV; deep pain shoots through from the palm of my hand to the edge of my elbow.

"Remus?"

I hear a muffled, _"hmm?"_

"What's wrong with my arm?"

He turns slowly – cautiously – knowing I'm half dressed. But I don't care so much about him seeing my stomach now. He's convinced I'm underweight. He's seen enough of me to know what's underneath the pajama top – to know what I look like already.

He eyeballs my frame, my arm, and then seems to clue in.

"Oh right – sorry Harry. Your right wrist was fractured. Your entire right side got the worst of it, actually. That's the side you landed on…" he watches me struggle for a bit, before adding, "can I help you? I mean, I know you want to do it yourself…but it would be quicker if I lent a hand."

I give a slow nod, disgusted with myself, but feeling increasingly uncomfortable with every second that passes.

"Remus?" I ask, laying my hands at my side – letting him take over completely, given that it's easier for him that way.

"What?"

"What's a Foley?"

I hear him swear, lightly, under his breath.

"It's this…tube…sort of…that they put into your lower body – it goes into your urethra, allows for urine to exit the body and collects in a little sack. Routine thing – used when people are too sick to use the washroom, or are unconscious. Stuff like that."

There is only one conclusion to draw now.

God hates me.

I must have done something absolutely horrendous in my past life, because he despises me so much – that I'm paying for it over and over again.

I look down at my lap.

"Did it go in…?" and I inhale, "did they put it in…?"

I don't have to finish the sentence, because he provides a clipped, "yes", and then, as if reading my mind. "They can probably take it out right now. Merlin knows I wouldn't want one of those things stuck in me either – and certainly for not more than a moment more than it had to be. I'm sorry, kiddo. I didn't even realize that they had set you up with one."

"_Set you up" – like they were installing cable, or something… _

But I don't know if I'm looking forward to having it removed, either. I was unconscious when they put it in – but I'll be wide-awake when they take it out. My stomach lurches.

"Harry? Love? You look a little…green…are you okay?"

Because the last thing I need to do is puke on Remus' mid-change. That would be a wonderful, memorable topper to this horrid…year. They might as well call me _the-boy-who-puked_ right about now.

He's done now anyway, with the changing, and rolls up my old soiled shirt into a little ball, throwing it into a clothes hamper at the far corner of my room.

I find myself picking at the cuticles of my nails again. Nervous habit.

"Harry? What's going on in that complicated little skull of yours?"

I keep pulling on the cuticle, and manage to rip part from its base.

"Don't do that Harry – your fingers are looking mangled enough as it is. Now, come on – tell me – what's worrying you?"

"I don't want them to take it out", I say, bringing the one mangled thumb Remus had referred to…up to my lips, much like I had done with my hand, earlier. I need to stop this…cutting, tearing, poking – my body doesn't have much blood left to lose, I'm sure.

_Gum chewing. _

_Yeah, maybe I can take up gum chewing – that may be the ticket._

"You don't?", he clarifies, interrupting my thoughts.

"I don't want it in…but I don't want them to take it…out…I mean…they'd have…they…"

He gets it.

"Well, maybe they can give you something for it – to help with the anxiety – before they remove it?"

Nice gesture, but I don't fucking care about anxiety. I just don't want anyone – even some nice, sympathetic nurse like Katie, to touch me anywhere – but especially not there.

"Can I do it myself?", I try to keep the hope out of my voice.

He sits down on my bed at that, dropping the railing on the side, watching out for my legs.

"I don't know kiddo. I doubt it. But you can ask one of your nurses or something. And, Harry – they _**CAN**_ give you something for it…they could probably make it so you aren't even aware. Something like a shot to make you go asleep for a little bit."

I shake my head firmly, resolutely.

"That would be worse!"

He's tight lipped now, and provides me with a solemn, "I see", before the door opens again, and the older man from before re-enters.

Remus stands suddenly, "we…we just got done…", he says, looking vaguely guilty.

The man saunters over, palms out in a peaceful _it's ok _gesture, and comes to stand very close to where Remus was just sitting, before doing so himself.

"So…everything's better now?" the man asks – and I realize then that his voice is different. He doesn't have an accent at all. Not an English accent, anyway. He sounds…like a North American.

"I…" but I don't want to really ask the question. I don't want to deal with it – I want to push it away. Part of me idiotically wonders how long I can stay hooked up to this little hose thingy.

"Harry", Remus clears his throat, "had a question about the Foley. He wanted to know if it could come out soon."

_That wasn't my only concern…_

"You got it", the as of yet still unnamed man says, but studying my face adds, "But don't be embarrassed – it's completely normal, or maybe I should say…common. Happens to everyone who goes through similar accidents. You had some pretty nasty injuries, and I'm actually surprised that you're awake already."

I nod hollowly – because, like it or not, they can all _**TELL**_ me not to me embarrassed – but fat lot of good it really does to be told not to be ashamed.

The simple truth is…I'm beyond mortified.

"Harry…well, I guess an introduction is in order, isn't it?" and I find myself shifting in my bed, not really caring much for an introduction either.

"I'm Dr. Nugent. I'm the resident adolescent psychiatrist on staff."

"You're a shrink?" and damn my voice for conking out on me right then, at the end.

He laughs, and it's a deep laugh, though he gives me a knowing smile. "You know better than that, I'm sure. But, yes, I am a shrink…to use your lingo."

The blanket it halfway up to my throat before I realize what I'm doing: I'm covering myself up – hiding.

"Uh…not to be rude…but…I mean, I am here recovering from surgery, so…what…?"

And for one, insanely horrible second I'm afraid that Remus told someone about my Uncle, about what happened, and I can't look at Dr. Nugent, or whatever his name is – cause I'm afraid I'll see that piteous look of knowledge on his face.

However, he seems to appreciate my upset and doesn't seem surprised by my response in the slightest.

"Well – yes, you did come to the hospital for physical injuries", he concurs, "Actually, you've been added to my…let's say "my roister"…because of physical injuries as well. Do you want to take a guess…and tell me why you think I've been assigned to meet with you?"

I know damn well WHY: I know it, and I hate it, and I'm mad all the same.

"I was…stressed", I mutter dangerously, eyes shooting daggers at my own lap for being so stupid, so needy, and so open – and for getting caught.

"You mean – with those?" And he pulls back the edge of the pink cotton blanket – the pink, now semi-stained red blanket, and he stops for a second, seeing the blood.

"I accidentally tore the IV, That…that's where the blood…I didn't make any…"

_**Why am I so nervous?**_

_Oh, I don't know. _

_Stupid question, Potter. Cause there is no good reason to be scared as shit right now!_

Dr. Nugent turns to Remus, asks blithely, "My nurses are getting lax," and then back to me, "would you like a fresh blanket Harry? This one needs to be laundered."

His eyes look at my hand then, seeing that it's bloody as well.

"And we will have to get that cleaned up too, won't we?"

What's all this "we" business, anyway? It's always someone else controlling me, or me being forced to do something. It's never a 'we' – never a joint effort.

"You might as well keep it like that, if you're just going to stab me with an IV again."

He seems taken aback by my hostility, but recovers quickly.

"I CAN appreciate your upset. You did something courageous for a friend…"

"For GINNY. Her name is Ginny, and I'd like to see her. PLEASE. Please.."

I'm not above begging at this point.

Remus catches Dr. Nugent's glance, stares down at his shoes.

"What?" I ask, feeling more and more agitated the longer Remus avoids my gaze.

Dr. Nugent stands abruptly, and offers a patient look, sort of a half-smile, really.

"I'm afraid your friend…Ginny? Ginny…is at a different clinic, recovering."

_**I don't understand…why? Why aren't we at the same place?**_

"Our hospital is a psychiatric hospital, Harry. We do in-patient assessments, and admittances, we cover a gamut of problems – providing a safe environment for teens who are dealing with suicidal thoughts and impulses, those recently diagnosed with schizophrenia, those with various, and debilitating panic disorders, and those with eating disorders – anorexia, bulimia, binge eating, along with severe depressive disorders, and self-injurious behaviors."

The shrink gives me a once-over, and the blasted machine from hell speeds up. My heart rate, of course, has sped up.

"I want this fucking thing OFF me!" I shout exasperatedly, sick and tired of being sick and tired – and having everyone know _**every last detail **_of my life: my fears, my worries – or even simply monitoring when and where I piss.

Remus looks…upset, too. Upset…_because I'm upset._

"I want this fucking thing OUT OF ME. You had no right to put it in! I want to use the fucking toilet like a fucking normal human being!"

"Harry", Remus begins, eyes like saucers, "calm down."

I turn to him so quickly, I have to stop, bend and cup my belly – the pain from my stomach causing me to bowl over, "and _**you**_…you said after the Hogsmeade trip! That's what you said…when…yesterday? More than that? How bloody long have I been here? When…was the game?" I clench through the pain, feeling my stomach go crazy with my movements.

I have no idea. I have no idea how long I've been out of it, what day it is, whether Ginny is okay, where Hermione or Ron are, anything… I feel so incredibly disoriented.

"Three days, Harry", Remus says timidly, "this is the third day."

Three days. 72 hours or more…of people poking around, examining me, talking about me – all while I was completely out of it. In surgery, out of surgery, into a friggin' hospital bed, IV's, catheters…all this SHIT.

"You said we'd go to London. You SAID Remus, you said…you wanted someone to see me…or me to see someone. This isn't…this fucking isn't fair! You didn't even give me a chance…I was getting better! I was trying to…and you…", and I cannot talk anymore, my voice constricted, my upset too great.

"Harry – I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to betray you. Frankly, I didn't know…the extend of the cutting, the extent of the eating issues… Once we took you back to the infirmary, we...I saw, and it scared me. To see you so badly scarred, so thin...SO thin, and your injuries, too. There just was no way you'd have been going back to school anytime soon... And now, knowing how badly your eating was...how you WEREN'T..."

"I DON'T HAVE EATING ISSUES!" and my voice comes out like a high pitched, choke of a scream, before I turn to one side, use my good arm to scrunch up my pillow, and throw my face into it, feeling the intense desire to yell into it, cry, attack it, lash it - I can't...I can't keep the rage in any longer.

No one says anything, and I cannot take it. The two of them in here, looking at me, watching me as I get more and more worked up.

I blink back tears.

"GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!"

"Harry…"

"SHUT UP. I DON'T…I DON'T…" and I'm bloody crying AGAIN; it's coming out unevenly, because I'm NOT going to let it come easily – not with anyone here, and when they are gone, I don't know what I'll do either, because I'm ready to lose it.

I hear the shrink tell Remus that maybe they should go – and let me calm down.

_**Yeah.**_

_**Get away from me. **_

_**I don't want to see you.**_

_**None of you.**_

_**You are all traitors. **_

_**You have all betrayed me.**_

_**I hate you.**_

_**I HATE YOU!**_

And then, once they are gone – once Remus is gone, and I hit the light switch with my stronger hand, and I'm engulfed in blackness, in the little pit of my barren hospital room – the night sky no longer blue, but now completely black, I sob into my pillow, hit it, scream into it, and scream the message to myself that I sometimes think, but never say aloud: _**I hate you, I HATE you! You fucking freak! YOU FREAK! I wish you would die!**_


	10. No One Ever Said It'd Be Easy

**Chapter 10** – No One Ever Said It'd Be Easy

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**A/N: Part 1** First of all, this chapter will be written in REMUS POV format, not from Harry's POV. Crazykids121 suggested a change in POV, and I think that's a really good idea. ;)

I guess I was keeping it very Harry focused to show his sense of isolation, fear – and later on…to show his hope and growth. But using a variant POV for the odd chapter wouldn't hurt, right? I actually had a bit more fun writing it from another's POV, too.

So if you guys have suggestions, leave me a note. I'll take anything under consideration, and who knows, it might end up in the story. ;)

-Kourion

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**Remus's POV**

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I can hear his cries, muffled, in the pillow as I leave. I feel…_ horrible_.

I know that he feels as if I betrayed him.

How can I ever begin to show him – explain to him – that I haven't?

"_**I hate you!" **_I hear, and I shut my eyes briefly, understanding his anger towards me.

But then others words follow, "_**You fucking freak! YOU FREAK!"**_ – echoing eerily from his space as the door locks behind us.

I KNOW then…I know that these aren't words directed towards me at all.

They are words that Harry is directing towards _HIMSELF._

There is something about the tone, the self-deprecation that is unmistakable; before the door latches, I catch a semi-muffled, "_**I wish you would die!"**_

That one does it for me.

I cannot bear to hear those words coming from him, and I turn to Dr. Sanderson Nugent; there is no way I'm leaving him in that state.

"You've got to let me go back…talk to him. _**Please.**_"

The doctors face is grim, but calm, and I sense that he's not about to yield to my request.

"I really do think we should give him his space at the moment, Professor. He's feeling…beyond overwhelmed, and with good cause. His embarrassment will likely only increase the more often we see him lose control. To him – losing control is the very worst thing imaginable – as manifested, sadly, by the deliberate cuts all over his body…his weight loss…"

I know this already.

I know Harry is craving…control; some semblance of it, anyway.

And even before I started looking for a doctor for Harry – before I started looking for someone for him to meet with – I had read this information.

It had been hard to locate in the Hogwarts library, so I had flooed to a larger Wizarding branch, and looked through their muggle section on various psychological disorders – depression, anorexia - anything that seemed to apply.

But I can't just sit idly by while…

"You heard him, though. Those last words – they weren't directed at me, or you…he was saying those things about himself!"

Dr. Nugent looks thoughtful, but I can tell that he hasn't changed his tune.

"You know – it's not an uncommon sentiment: to hear a patient use such…self-abuse language. I'm sure there is a very real part of Harry that feels as if _he is worthless_, that hates the position he feels he is causing for others… I'm sure he does simply care about seeming, well, good. Doing as asked, not displaying problems, not generating…issues. And right now, I wouldn't be surprised if he was – from time to time – battling suicidal ideation."

_**WHAT?**_

I can't speak for a moment. I'm too shocked. And then:

"I read…cutting…it's not linked to suicide. That the two…" I'm flustered, and speaking sporadically.

The doctor seems to understand.

"Don't misunderstand what I'm saying here. I am not saying that Harry is suicidal. Many of his past behaviors hint at trying to preserve the self – and you're right. Cutting has been his way of dealing with negative emotions – sadness, or perhaps anger. But the anger is something he'll feel relates to his own person…"

The gears in my head are turning, but aren't coming up with any thing that makes sense. The doctor is still speaking. For a moment, I didn't hear anything – the noise of my own thoughts blotting out the words of the man right in front of me.

"…because if those emotions became too much to bear, the next step for a depressive individual would typically lead to entertaining suicidal thoughts. When the mind cannot cope anymore…_that's_ when people start seeing suicide as a genuine option. But Harry DID find ways of coping, albeit maladaptive ways. Part of this, you see, is likely…a self-punishment. He harms both to take away the emotional pain – but also to punish himself."

"But WHY? How is he to blame for anything? He's a great kid! He's loyal, and compassionate, kind…courageous. It doesn't make sense."

Dr. Nugent crosses his arms, his eyes radiating certain awareness.

"Sometimes the kindest kids go through this stuff. Usually…in the case of anorexia, more than anything, we see…a sort of perfectionism. It can manifest itself in various ways. It doesn't necessarily present as overachieving in school, or…in having to be neat. It can be perfectionism focused, applied, to one area of life. How he sees himself…for example. What he must achieve…for himself, for others. He may become fanatical, obsessed…with maintaining a certain…status."

"But why? I mean…"

Nugent exhales, a long, pent-up breath released.

"Who knows? I mean, at the end of the day…we know biology plays a huge role in these sorts of conditions. Because not everyone is soothed by self-injurious applications. Usually, in most cases, there is some history of abuse too. That typically goes hand-in-hand with cutting, at the very least. And…even amongst eating disorder sufferers…they are much more likely to have been abused compared to non-ed'd individuals."

I nod, not wanting – not able to say more. Not wanting to expose Harry outright. Feeling…somehow, as if to do so…WOULD be betrayal.

"When you called me… about Harry, you told me his physical state – that he'd recently been in a serious accident, and then described his other…conditions, I was even more concerned. Then to have him treated at one hospital, moved – hemorrhage between hospitals – I knew we'd be in for the long haul. Adolescents have a difficult enough time recovering from surgeries of that magnitude without having to deal with these other issues. His body is battling an ed, his mind is battling so many things – it could take a long time to uncover them all…and then, on top of that…his recovery from a serious accident, from surgery", a pause, "You did the right thing, you know…bringing him here. He'd more than likely have gone downhill…had he been allowed to simply physically recuperate and then return to school."

We had taken Harry to St. Mungo's originally.

He had been treated – most of the bleeding stopped, the stake removed, the organs were starting to heal – but I could see…we all could SEE that we were out of our league.

We all knew then that St. Mungo's would only be able to treat Harry's body. His thinness, his cuts, the damage to his body that was completely unrelated to his Quidditch accident – would take a lot longer to treat.

I remember being horrified, as one of the nurses at St. Mungo's removed the entire Quidditch uniform… and the fresh cuts all over his thighs had been exposed. Cuts likely made that same day, even, and Harry had more or less implied that he had stopped.

_**But he hadn't.**_

He had likely attempted to stop, in part – no new marks on the arms – all the old marks now scarred. But he had simply shifted direction, focus…found a new place, a less exposed part of his body to attack.

Hermione, who had been close by at the time, holding his hand, calming him as the potions began to do their work and calm him down - had seen more than I would have liked.

It was she, in the end, that convinced me that Harry was obviously too far-gone to simply require a little rest time.

She had insisted that Harry was suffering from something far more severe. Something he would likely not recover from on his own.

And maybe it was the look of knowledge or intelligence in the young witch's eyes – or maybe it was something more – some prescience coming through, that I could feel. But whatever it was, I felt as if I should heed her advice…do as she instructed. Listen to this girl, her arm still interlocked with her friends, her eyes bright – determined.

All I remember was feeling chilled, as if Hermione had been seeing something no one else _could see_ – and not simply because of her text-book knowledge, her readings, her studious appreciation of these sorts of disorders which are a rarity in the non-muggle world.

No…it was that which surpassed bookish appreciations.

And it was her insistence that finally drove me to find a more…suitable environment for Harry's recovery.

The hemorrhaging, mid-transport, took us all by surprise. He had to be treated, again, at a muggle hospital, as we lacked sufficient time to return him to St. Mungo's.

It's a fact that will forever haunt me, especially when I think of how barbaric the act of muggle surgery is…how a bunch of men tore into his already torn body, sliced him open from almost one end to another, and removed his spleen.

When I think about how they cauterized his body with small medical torches, sealed up sections of his flesh as if he were…a machine…a muggle car…the pain, my sadness for him…is almost unbearable.

I need to talk to him.

Need to make him understand how much I truly care about him. He's…_so alone right now._

In utter darkness.

"Professor Lupin?"

I realize I'm near tears.

"I know this is difficult. I don't have to be a doctor to appreciate the…bond you two share. I haven't looked over Harry's admittance papers yet – only his medical documents from Misericordia Memorial, where he had the surgery…but…he doesn't have any parents, does he?"

The grief wells up in my throat.

"No", I mutter, my eyes dark, "he's an orphan."

The doctor nods severely, asking, "When did he lose them? _How_ did he lose them? All this is important for me to know, if I am to treat him."

I knew this was coming.

"Car accident", I supply, not feeling guilty for the lie. It's necessary.

"As to when…well, he was little more than a baby really…15 months old. He wasn't in the collision. I don't even know if he can remember them…if he has any clear memories of his mother, his father. I've never asked."

The man chews his lip in thought, "and you say he lives at this boys boarding school now?"

No, no… 

"It's co-op institution, boys and girls dormitories – 11 through 17, sometimes 18 year olds… and he returns to his relations in the summer."

_Or he did._

Part of me feels the briefest surge of relief knowing that…he'll never have to see them again.

There are more questions still, of course.

"He lived with these relations since his infancy?"

I nod, hollowly – sickly.

"How was his relationship with them?"

And there we have it: the clincher. The one question I cannot answer – that I cannot answer for him.

"I…they weren't…no, they weren't very good to him, no. I don't know everything though…bits and pieces."

It's all I can say right now, and he seems to leave it at that. Satisfied – for now.

Not that I can say much more. I don't know the half of it, likely, and it's not my place to say the words that Harry could barely get out in the first place.

All I know is that there is no way in hell he's ever lived anything approaching a normal existence.

His childhood must have been one horror show after another.

The thought has been tormenting me lately. For his uncle attacked his 16-year-old nephew, _**knowing**_ the kid had magical ability, and was nearly grown.

So what in God's name did Harry go through when he was younger? What atrocities befell him as a little child…as a one year old, a two year old?

"Professor?"

"I'm sorry. You see – I was one of Harry's father's best friends growing up, and even afterwards, we were close. I remember when Harry was born, actually. So…yeah, I guess you could say…I feel a certain connection to him. I not only see my friends…in Harry, but I remember that little baby he once was…"

But if I focus on the past…well, the thought fills me with a little warmth.

I can remember that intense, green-eyed infant, hair already topped with blackness.

A little older: his inquisitive, pudgy hand grappling for my wand, his cooing in his crib, standing up, babbling from his room at six months.

Even older - that little boy crawling, and his near tumble down the stairs, and Lily's quick reflexes as he started to slip – the tears – the tears from fright. Rocking him, his little face nestled under her chin, calming down immediately.

Lily always could soothe him.

She could stop his crying almost immediately.

James, on the other hand…well, he'd likely bounce his infant son on one knee, or throw him up in the air, and I'd always be on my guard, ready to intervene – worried the child would hit the floor. Because James was rambunctious. And sometimes it worked – and Harry would dissolve into the charming giggles of a little baby.

But sometimes it didn't work.

Harry wasn't James.

I could see the similarities, mostly physical – but Harry had always seemed more like his mother, temperament-wise.

He had a more…reactive system; he was much more easily overwhelmed, like Lily.

Yet, paradoxically, he still had a daring spirit – he still was an adventurous kid, despite being a sensitive kid.

You could see it from the beginning…the curiosity, and the apprehension, and usually – usually the curiosity won out.

Nugent speaks again, and I almost startle – having been completely consumed by the memories of a small boy with black hair, who called me Moony.

"Harry will need to have his IV line re-affixed soon. And we _**WILL**_ be starting caloric liquid supplementation tomorrow morning, which is something he's not going to like. Do you have to return to your institution soon?"

I nod, begrudgingly, "yes – I must. I can visit him daily, though. Can I bring…some of Harry's friends?"

Dr. Nugent smiles.

"Of course. Same visiting hours apply to them, of course. 4:30 to 8:30 pm, barring Sundays. And right now, there will be no added restrictions, because he won't be on solid food for a while yet. But when that happens, I wouldn't be surprised if Harry will request to NOT have visitors. Meal times can be pretty…emotional times on this ward. Especially in the beginning. And the IV supplementation is going to be rough itself…"

I don't like the sound of that, so I ask, "You mean…emotionally?"

A nod. "Yes, without a doubt emotionally…but it's hard on the body too. Have you ever heard of _**re-feeding syndrome**_?"

No, I haven't.

It sounds…ominous.

My look of confusion must be all the answer he needs.

"It's…a potentially dangerous condition where the body goes into…a sort of shock when receiving nutrition after being without it for so long. It's not simply Harry's mind that has become accustomed to starvation. He'll likely feel…swollen, may have issues with edema – swelling of the legs, arms, and in most anorectics – the belly often swells, too. Nausea is very common. It's one reason IV's are used in severe cases – he cannot vomit what's not in his stomach."

_Oh Merlin. That sounds…hellish._

"So, you can imagine…he may not be up to seeing anyone. The physical reactions can be quite draining. Without a doubt…you'd best ask him before you return with any of his peers. He may be feeling a little too exposed right now, regardless."

_God almighty – the poor kid._

"And the…other reactions?", I ask after a moment.

"He'll likely feel depressive…"

"He _ALREADY_ feels depressive…I don't see…"

_**Merlin…this is so unfair.**_

"Well…generally speaking, the depression always worsens during re-feeding. And weight gain is going to be hard. His…self-revulsion is likely to increase before it abates. You may even hear him say some pretty…shocking things about himself. I've been dealing with these conditions for thirty years, and believe me when I say…for the patient…the hardest time for them is not when they look sick – it's when they look healthy."

"There's got to be a better way than this… I mean… maybe…delay the weight gain…actually have him undergo…some sort of therapy first? So it's not so jolting for him?"

I'm grasping at straws here, but I don't want anymore torment for him…Poor kid…has had several lives worth already. 

The doctor looks understanding.

"That's not a viable alternative. In eating disorder cases where malnutrition is a key focus…such as in Harry's case…it's not simply a matter of psychology anymore. His body has become conditioned to feel better – calmer – during restrictive times. But it's made more complicated by the fact that hormones - his body chemistry itself - is out of whack, for wont of a better term."

"But…"

"We _**need**_ to bring his physical body up to an acceptable level of health, otherwise therapy won't take. He won't likely **hear** me right now. He's living in something like a fog – his own inner nightmare, and everything around him is faint. It's one reason why out-patient therapy cannot be done unless a patient is at a moderately healthy weight in the first place."

"Wait a minute. You're saying…that Harry has _**no idea what he's doing?**_ Or that he can't hear us? Understand us? That doesn't…"

"**No.** It's…more complicated than that. His body is giving him…signals…signs. He feels high as a kite when he starves, when he cuts – everything bad is blotted out. He does NOT feel good when those emotions come to the fore. And therapy brings them to the fore…sometimes rapidly. But at the same time, behavior modification cannot commence until he is at least _moderately_ physically healthy, because his obsessive features will be overriding what I say…what _you_ say…"

It's starting to make a bit of unpleasant sense.

"But when he gains, he'll also be more…aware of this gain? I mean, cognitively?"

"Yes. He's aware now, at some level, that what he is doing isn't good…but that awareness is so small compared to the awareness that he feels better. So he's torn – knowing that he's making those who love him, care about him – worry. Yet not being able to stop."

_**I…don't want to hear anymore about it. Not now. It's too unbelievably sad.**_

"That's why it is imperative that he gains in this sort of setting…especially given his history of self-injury. If he were forced to gain in a less than secure environment, his cutting would undoubtedly get worse. He'll likely be in a pretty black place soon…blacker than before. It almost always gets worse for these kids before it gets better."

_**It can't get any worse…how could it?**_

"And what…?", I clear my throat, "can we do to make it easier for him? Can…we bring him some of his own things? His own clothes? Anything like that? To make him feel a little less…alone…less isolated?"

_**I hate feeling so…useless. Impotent. Poor kid's in hell…and I can't do anything?**_

Dr. Nugent nods, roots around in his white coat pocket, and retrieves a computer printed note. A muggle note, on off-white paper, detailing what items Harry can keep on his person, in his room.

I take the paper gratefully, and scan it, as he departs with one final nod of his head.

Then I begin to read…

**In-patient Acceptable Items:**

**-Essentials-**

_-personal toothbrush, personal toothpaste. (items kept with head nurse)_

_-liquid soap, personal shampoo and conditioner (items kept with head nurse)_

_-electric razors. __**Disposable razors will not be permitted**_

_-pajamas, lacking ties or lose strings. Button up flannel preferred._

_-an assortment of clothing, in various sizes – form fitting to baggy. In the case of those on ward 1B, pants of up to five sizes higher should be included for patient._

I'm getting the impression that Harry is on ward 1B…

_-sweatshirts lacking pockets. Pants lacking pockets. No drawstrings allowed._

_-slip on shoes, or shoes with Velcro for wards 1A and 1B_

_-personal toiletries not already listed, as approved by head nurse_

_-moisturizer_

_-make up products, feminine hygiene products for adolescent girls_

Little kids with eating issues? That's the implication here, isn't it? I shudder at the thought, and return my focus once more to the paper.

_-hairbrush, with soft bristles_

_**Note:**__ floss will be restricted. _

**-Recommended Items-**

_-paperback novels of a supportive nature. Any genre._

_-a journal and pens for writing purposes (pens may be kept with head nurse unless requested for use)_

_-comfort items. This can range the gamut from old photos of family and friends, to a stuffed toy, to a sports jersey (please check with head nurse before bringing)_

_-a cd player with an ac adapter plug (preferred to batteries). Use may be restricted in the case of those on ward 1A_

_-a disposable camera for group outings in phase 2_

_-stationary, stamps, envelopes – for writing letters to family or friends_

_-tapes of shows which the patient enjoys (no graphic sex, no graphic violence permitted. Any tapes featuring such contents will be confiscated), for use in the free assembly lounge during personal time_

**-Food items-**

_-all food items brought by family and friends will be admitted on a case-by-case basis. Generally, most items will be allowed for all those outside of ward 1B. Those on ward 1B may be permitted food items on a case-by-case basis if the food items can be worked into the patients meal plan, or be chosen as a healthful snack selection._

_Foods of a certain nature – such as sorbitol candies that can yield a laxative effect –are restricted. Other restricted substances included dietetic foods, diet colas and sugar free drinks, and dried fruit: raisins, prunes. _

Dried raisins aren't allowed? I'm starting to feel…pretty…ignorant. I don't understand the half of it, apparently…

_Easily voided foods will also be restricted during phase 1 for safety precautions. These include: ice cream products, smoothie mixes, and plain milk or dark chocolate lacking nuts._

_**What?**_

_**Chocolate? **_

_**Is that why Harry choose chocolate the day of the match? **_

_**To…purge it?**_

I continue to read, focusing intently to remember all the rules, and already compiling a mental list of things to fetch for Harry…

**Note: additional items allowed on a case-by-case basis. Please select items that lack strings, sharp edges, and breakable materials, discouraging words or attachments. All backpacks/bags or suitcases are subject to examination before being taken through to the patient on any ward.**

I'm going to need Hermione's help with this. I know she'll be the most…sensitive to Harry's needs.

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**A/N:** well, I've been writing up a storm the last three days. Also working on a _Supernatural_ vignette, and some _SG1_ fiction, semi-focusing on a job hunt at the moment for something in the information sciences (and not focusing enough, evidentially) – and so I cannot guarantee a new chapter soon. This story is likely…not even half-way through right now. Harry still has a long ways to go, sadly.

Onto responses…

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**Möwe**: I found myself getting upset too. Almost…wanting to hug this poor, fictional character. I don't think I ever foresaw that I'd be finding it quite this hard to write. But parts definitely are hard to get out.

**MagicalWinry, loveseverussnape, monty1962, scorpiogirl, theatrephunk, yeeww, batteredchild, patricia8, livingiseasywitheyesclosed, redkitsuneflames**: your support is appreciated. I love reviews. So thanks a bundle:)

**Wynnleaf**: no…no magical applications in the muggle facility, unfortunately. The muggles lack an awareness of all things truly magical, so even though Remus is going to be…wishing he could speed the process up, aid Harry in some magical way…that's not going to be possible, I don't think.

**Pip3**: laughs You're completely right. It's my very egoistic-Canadian self shining through, is it not? You see…this is exactly why I need a beta reader. Incidentally, I often think of myself…as having an accent. I think of everyone as having an accent…different accents to my own, or similar. I don't think there is such a thing as unaccented speech. So maybe we'll make Harry take after myself here, eh? ;) (ha. I love my excuses!)

Btw, re: emotional reactions. I think, as far as feeling the most…pain for Harry, well, for me…that came at the end of Chapter 8. But as far as feeling…a little sick to my stomach, queasy – I think that would be Chapter 3 – when he's cutting himself in the shower. Despite my past, I'm – peculiarly – very much phobic of blood MOST of the time. Especially when another person is bleeding, injured…my empathy kicks in, and it's very hard for me to read or write about someone doing that to themselves. Talk about a weird package, huh?

**Crazykids121**: I love your suggestions…so this chapter is dedicated to you. ;) Thanks for your continued kindness. You are a real sweet one, aren't you?

Anyway, it seems as if we might appreciate similar writing styles, genres, stories. May I ask…do you like philosophy? As a philosophy graduate, I love many different books that relate to existentialism or metaphysics. I'd definitely recommend _**Man's Search for Meaning**_ by Viktor Frankl. Many argue he wasn't a philosopher…but to me, you cannot get a more beautiful, poetic, haunting piece of literature as relates to existentialism. It is, unquestionably, my favorite book. Highly readable too…not jargon filled. Despite my understanding of some philosophical jargon…I'm drawn to the clean stuff, the raw stuff. Nothing fancy. :)


	11. Please Take This And Run Far Away

**Chapter 11** – Please Take This And Run Far Away From Me

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**A/N:** Hopefully, I get all the medical techno babble right – it's not a big concern yet, but will be featured more within the next few chapters. I have personal experience with some of this stuff, but not with everything. I have had EKG's, and IV supplementation. I had never been threatened with an NG tube – and I'm very happy about that, because those things supposedly hurt a lot going down. One friend told me that hers went down incorrectly and she coughed up blood.

I've never been IP – even if I've come close. I've had friends who have been in IP though, and I've paid attention to their stories (part of my motivation for getting better! Who wants to spend months in an IP setting, with restricted access to…well…everything?).

This chapter will be from Hermione's POV. Yay!Girl power. ;) But any Harry-support is cool. However, Hermione is a pretty savvy character. Given Harry's past experiences…he will be slightly more receptive to females, anyway. It just makes a kind of tragic sense.

Oh, lastly – while I usually write in relative silence, I kept listening to _**"And All That Could Have Been"**_ by _**Nine Inch Nails**_ while I wrote this chapter. That one song defined my initial recovery-period so much, that I thought listening to it would help with the writing. It has tremendous personal meaning for me, but it also kicks arse – so if you've never listened to it, or if you have written off _**Nine Inch Nails**_ as being too raucous…give it a shot (go listen to it on youtube or something). You may just like it (although I like all sorts of music… ;)). The title, of course, comes from lyrics from that song.

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**Hermione's POV**

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Professor Lupin is back now. I see him amble into the great hall, about 15 minutes into dinner.

He looks…exhausted.

I feel apprehensive about talking to him. I know how Ginny's doing. But I have no idea how well Harry's doing; I'm worried sick.

I watch, intently, as Professor Lupin settles in quietly amongst the other professors, mumbles something to Snape, of all people, then stares at the food options in front of him – his eyes looking haunted as he helps himself to some potatoes.

I'm done with my own food, and push my nearly full plate away, much to Ron's disapproval.

"What's this then? Come on…I don't need another friend getting sick on me!"

I turn to him, understanding his feelings, but just not having an appetite.

"Please…don't worry about me Ron. I just can't eat much right now."

He looks at his pork sirloin, scowl on his face.

"That's what Harry said…that everything tasted "off". Remember?"

_**How could I forget?**_

"Look. I'll make you a deal. If I ever think I need to go on a diet…I'll come to you first. It'll be a Ronald-Weasley approved diet, okay?"

He glances up at me, his eyes coursing over my body intently, and I shift in my chair, feeling several emotions – some good, some not so good, as he studies me.

"No diet…_**ever**_. You're perfect the way you are…hear?"

I feel an egg sized lump back up in my throat.

"Yeah…thanks…" I mutter.

"Of course. It's true, anyway. Besides…you know…Harry's not really on a diet, is he? What did you tell me…that this stuff…it's a muggle disease…but it's not about dieting?"

I nod solemnly, "Yeah. Harry's never been on a diet. It never WAS a diet. It just looked like one. At first."

He gobbles down the last of his creamed corn; obviously still hungry.

"Well…diet or no diet…you better never go on one or do anything like…well…you know…what Harry did."

I exhale, somewhat grateful for his protectiveness – somewhat smothered by it.

"And what if I needed one? Not right now", I add – as an afterthought, seeing his look of alarm.

I actually have lost weight recently – not intentionally – just a growth spurt, I think.

"'Mione", he tests softly, "you…you aren't trying to loose weight, are you? I mean…"

"No!", I say quickly – to assure him. But my insistence does the opposite.

"Listen…I know…girls…sometimes make a big deal out of that stuff. And you've lost some too, err…I mean, haven't you?" he looks embarrassed.

I put him out of his misery.

"Growth spurt Ron. That's all. Though I'm surprised you noticed."

He cringes, "Well, it's sort of obvious…"

I find myself pushing away my pumpkin juice, too.

"Thanks…"

"No! That came out wrong…I mean…I mean…you were always small…but now you are thinner…I mean…all drawn out looking, stretched. String beany."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, that tends to happen with a growth spurt".

He pokes a glazed carrot, nibbles on it, and swallows.

"You still haven't answered my question, though. About the diet?", I prod.

"Never going to happen…not ever."

He's just avoiding the real issue here.

"But I mean…what if I DID need one?"

"IF and only _if_ **I** really thought you needed to lose a little bit…you'd give me your chocolate, that's what…"

I roll my eyes, "Thanks Ronald. I feel so much better, knowing you are taking this so seriously."

He grins at me, manically, though I see the stress lines around his mouth – the tension of a fake, forced grin. He's just pretending to be alright.

_**His sister almost died.**_

His friend…our best friend…**still could.**

I know his badinage is just his way of coping with the strains, stresses, of the last few days.

"I _**am**_ taking this seriously Hermione. And this is what I know: you are a stick. Harry is a stick."

I sip my pumpkin juice, feeling a little assured, when he asks another question.

"What do you think caused this…set it off? I mean, _WHY?"_ he asks glumly.

I shake my head. I have no idea; but I find my gaze traveling back to the professor's table.

_**I know someone who probably has some understanding…of why…**_

---------

When Professor Lupin starts to leave, I do too.

I catch him outside in the hallway, a few students mingling around; two first years playing that stupid exploding snap game near the bottom of the Gryffindor staircase.

The professor gently admonishes them, and they pack up the materials, scuttle off to their dorms.

"Professor!", I call, needing to talk to him.

He turns, his eyes register my presence, he stops walking, and I jog up to meet him.

Looking over his frame carefully, taking in his bedraggled appearance, I ready myself for less-than-pleasant news.

"How…how is he?", I ask solemnly.

He glances around swiftly, taking in the environment.

"Walk with me", comes his even reply.

_**Oh. Ok. Not in the open, I get it.**_

However, this doesn't bode well for a favorable response.

I feel my stomach turn.

We step outside, near the Herbology greenhouse, and walk the path to the Quidditch training field, the yellow-green orb lights illuminating our way.

When we are surely alone, he speaks again.

"He's…struggling. More than I think anyone ever thought…"

I stare down at the white-pebbled track; use the heel of my foot to make a small hole in the stones.

"Can I do anything to help him?"

Professor Lupin raises his eyes from my foot – which is still intensely mucking up the path, and nods.

"I was just going to come and talk with you, actually. I do think you can help him, yes. There are things…hard things…I have to discuss with you - soon. Some stuff…you might have already guessed about – I wouldn't put it past you to have some sort of awareness of his issues – but some stuff, other stuff, probably not. It's…not pleasant. None of it."

I gulp down the swollen egg-like lump, or try to, anyway.

"If I can't even hear about it…then what's it like for Harry? He's living it!" I express, adamantly.

Lupin smiles at me, seemingly relieved by my response, "I was hoping you'd…feel that way. Because he needs all the support right now that he can get. And I think you are in a unique position to help him, actually."

We continue to walk, and he continues to fill me in, and before too long – I actually request the Professor to stop speaking, much to my great shame.

Because I CAN'T hear it all – not easily – and that knowledge makes me feel nothing but grief for Harry. Knowing he's living in this state of…suffering …knowing that it's so hard to hear about, that I actually request for the talk to stop, the information to cease. I can't even hear the words. And my best friend is stuck in this purgatory.

--------------

I meet up with Ron, and immediately he grills me.

"Bloody hell", I hear him mutter, "what did Lupin say?! You look white as a ghost."

"I…ah…" and I gulp down my sadness.

"Hermione…you're…your hands are shaking", and he engulfs me in a hug. Our roles are reversed. Four days ago, I was hugging him – and now he is hugging me.

"Everything is so messed up Ron…he's…in a really bad place. You know…Lupin only told me a little bit…I could tell…cause he kept…shifting directions – avoiding something, and he was actually pretty open about a lot…so whatever he's avoiding…. He'd get close to something, and he'd stop, and then start on something else…"

"You're rambling. What did he say?", and we pull apart; I immediately miss the warmth from his body.

"Umm…he said, in the immediate…that we could fetch some of Harry's things. Cause he might be in the hospital for awhile."

Ron looks disturbed. "Awhile? What's that supposed to mean? I mean, he had to have surgery at one of those dark-age muggle hospitals…but can't he just come back to Hogwarts…have Pomfrey heal what those quacks did to 'em…and…?"

My head is shaking back and forth, "No…he's…not eating. Anything. Remus said he's…making himself sick."

I battle down more tears; I have to be strong for Harry. What good will falling apart do?

"'Getting sick'…what does…?", and then I see that HE sees, and his mouth slumps into an angry frown, his frustration evident, "So…so he comes back, and Pomfrey forces him to drink a nutrient potion, and then he won't get sicker…"

He DOESN'T see. Not really.

"Ron…he's doing this to himself deliberately. He's throwing up whatever he does eat…whenever he's forced to eat anything, and no one can watch him 24 hours a day, regardless. It doesn't fix anything!"

Ron's mad now. It's his veil for fear.

"So…so what? He's holed up in some muggle hospital. You think that'll HELP him 'Mione? No…no WAY…he's gonna go stark raving lunatic CRAZY in one of those places. You know it! Harry hates…being controlled…he's…NO…that's…this is…"

I appreciate his anger, his frustration, his sense of being…ineffective, not being able to reach out, and just make everything better for Harry.

"If he came back, he'd just put on weight. But that doesn't really fix anything. It doesn't address the real issues…"

He's storming about now, his fear worsening as the reality – the severity of the situation - hits him.

"That's what you girls always think is best, right? _Talk, talk, talk_…like…"

"RON! It's not what **I** think is best – it's what IS best. Damnit…you think I WANT things to be all dragged out and messy for him? I don't know anything, really…I just know some of the…top stuff, the surface garbage, and you know what? It scares the hell out of me – what little I know. I KNOW it scares you too…"

He looks like he wants to debate the point, as if the implication somehow is a emasculating one.

"It SCARES Remus, Ron. He…couldn't get it out easily, either. He's an adult. He's had days to process it…he's talked to Harry…and he looks freaked. Anyone who cares about Harry would be freaked. Everything is hellish for our best friend…and he's the one doing half of this to himself…it's self-abuse, okay? So how is that not a terrifying situation?"

That shuts him up. He paces for a moment, comes back to me, slings his arms around my waist.

"Ok", he says finally, "what do we do to help him? What can you and I do…?"

I take his hand, feeling a little stronger now, knowing he's ready to fight for Harry, too.

"Just…be there for him. Just…love him."

----------

I say a silent prayer to the heaven's that be that the boy's dormitories aren't off limits to girls, as I ascend with Ron to his – his and Harry's – dormitory room.

I have never been in here – not fully, not for any length of time, so my curiosity gets the better of me as I begin to scan the space.

"Which one is his bed?", I ask evenly.

Ron chuckles, "Which one is ridiculously neat?"

I see _two _neat spaces, and two completely bedraggled spaces.

I pass by one bed that smells…of candy, and almost do a double take. How can ANY bed smell like candy?

Ron stops, looks at me questioningly, his face a mixture of confusion and embarrassment.

"What?"

"What did you do…put gummy worms into little sachets under your pillows?"

He examines my face, smile playing on his lips.

"How do you know this is MY bed, eh?", teasing tone.

"It smells like chocolate…so my guess is…you've probably consumed that all too-toxic amount, and it's seeping out of your pores now."

He laughs, and it sounds…good. I haven't heard Ron laugh in awhile. I haven't heard Harry laugh…in forever.

"Yeah…well…", and I pause as I move by his nightstand.

"What's this? Some under wraps girlfriend?", and I point to a half naked Quidditch cheerleader, delighted when his ears turn the same color as my hair.

"That's…that's Harry's…", he says, his voice lacking conviction.

"Right…_I'm sure_."

I let it slide, and pass by to the neater section of the bedroom. One wall posted with Herbology plant photos – glorious colors, and a neatly tacked photo of a smiling, aged woman, hair as white as hor frost. Obviously Neville's space. I smile at a cute photo of Neville and Ginny, and then turn to take in the area furthest from the door.

_Harry's space… _

_His whole life, his memories, his interests…captured in this small section of room._

"So what did Lupin say to grab for Harry? Pajamas?"

Of course he'd remember that. Sleeping and eating: the two most important things in Ronald Weasley's life.

"Amongst other things…" and I find myself staring at Harry's picture wall.

"Oh look Ron…god he was so adorable in first year! I had forgotten how tiny he was!", I say, examining a Quidditch photo of him being tossed into the air, insanely happy grin on his face.

Ron looks a little jealous.

"Yeah, well, we were _**all **_smaller then…" he sniffs.

"Yeah…but he was _**so**_ small", I prod, riling him up, not knowing why. I mean – now isn't the time or the place.

"Whatever", he whispers, his voice petulant.

I watch him riffle around in his bedside drawer for a moment, trying to appear calm, but…I know better.

"It bugs you, doesn't it?"

"What?" he looks up sharply.

"When I say anything about Harry… Like…that he was cute."

He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, and opens it again.

"No – not really. He…well, I'm a guy…but…yeah, he was small. I guess girls would find him cute – do find him cute", he looks upset as he says that.

I find myself drawn to the photo of me – hugging Harry from first year. It's in the center of his photo wall, and part of me feels some bittersweet hope that friendship – our friendship – will be enough to see him through this.

I still remember that day – like it just happened. I think that was the day when Harry, undoubtedly, became one of my favorite people on the planet.

"I don't fancy him, you know", I say seriously, realizing that Ron still has his defenses up.

_**Teasing time is over.**_

"Huh?"

"Harry. He's…j_ust _a friend. I mean, that's…how I see him. You DO know that, right? I mean, he's just a friend, so…"

I watch him out of the corner of my eye, but I see him try to cover up a smile as he hears what I'm _**really **_saying; he stares at a box of Bernie Bott's beans. The tension has shifted, but it's different from before. It's warm…and…

"I know…I mean…I knew…I know… you like him as a friend, only. He's like your brother, right?"

He's fishing, still. Not totally convinced.

_**Good job, Ron…but I'm not fooled for a second…**_

"He's like…the best brother anyone could have, but yeah…he's like a brother to me. It's that sort of love."

"I hope I'm a half-way acceptable brother, too, then – I mean, Harry would be hard to beat…but...", he opens the candy box, pops a bean into his mouth.

_**Good job Hermione… **_

_**How do you manage to get yourself into these situations?**_

I stare next at a photo of the three of us, taken at Hogsmeade; Harry hugging me, completely relaxed with the physical contact and Ron – near me, but more…tentative, not feeling as if he can be quite so open about it.

_**Because…he doesn't see you as a sister…that's why…**_

"No", I say, not looking at his face, "I don't really…see you as a brother. But I care about you just as much…just…not that way…Funny, huh?"

Which only leaves one other way that I could possibly see him, since I obviously wouldn't see him as a mentor...or a father...

**He gets it** – _I know he gets it_ – because he's silent for an impossibly long moment, before I hear a fluttered, _"Oh?" _and his smile is even larger; he's grinning at his pegboard, trying to conceal it, but it's not working well, and I hear a constrained laugh as I walk by, playing it cool.

"Well…now that we have _THAT_ straightened out, let's get this bag packed up for Harry, what do you say?"

He nods, meets me eyes shyly, his face still a little pink, but is quiet - seemingly at loss for words.

"Okay then. I'll…let you pack up his clothes. I doubt Harry wants me going through his underwear."

Ron snorts.

"Do you know what we could bring…for…you know…comfort? "Things from home"…which means Hogwarts, I guess. Any other Quidditch stuff – I don't know where his other jersey went – probably wrecked…because…well…", I don't have to finish that thought, "but I don't think sharp objects are allowed. Not on the ward. Remus told me – no strings, nothing breakable, nothing gory, like boy's books and stuff, nothing sexist…like that photo of your Quidditch girlfriend…"

Ron laughs, happy this time with my teasing. In the span of five minutes – so much has changed.

_I guess a lot can happen…in a short period of time._

He thinks for a second, before he tugs on Harry's suitcase – still mostly full with his clothes and toiletries.

_What? He hasn't even unpacked yet! After…two months?_

"Ron…does Harry EVER put his stuff away?"

Ron looks slightly amused. "No…not really. He never did. He'd live out of his suitcase for the whole year. Do his laundry, fold his stuff back up – and then just put it back into the suitcase. I have no idea why he even has a wardrobe. Well…at least Seamus and I can use it now…Neville too. Look here…"

And I do, while he opens the wardrobe.

It's filled with books on herbology, extra Quidditch gear…stuff that the others boys would have otherwise have stashed under their beds.

"And Harry never used it? I mean…not since first year? Ever?"

"Nope – I…he…always kept it in that suitcase. And even that he kept under his bed. It's like…he didn't want to take up space. Didn't want his stuff to even be seen. I was surprised when he started in on the photo wall; I guess I can thank Neville…Neville encouraged him to do it…"

Something about this isn't right.

Something about those words…

"_**Didn't want to take up space…"**_

Ron seems to be lost in thought too – I think he also senses what I feel. As if Harry's always been self-conscious of being seen, being known.

Funny…how we didn't truly see this before now. As if we couldn't see it. Only in hindsight do his little oddities make sense, fit into a larger picture of who he is – what's happened to him.

Ron tries to lighten the mood.

"I think he still carries his first Quidditch jersey around with him…I think…" and he's searching for something, and then – a look of recognition.

"Hey – Hermione – take a look. This is what he wore first year, the little sentimentalist. I knew he had kept it!", and he pulls out the first-year jersey – slightly faded, but not too badly, having being kept in darkness for the last four years. It in remarkably good condition – folded neatly, smelling faintly of old earth.

I take it almost reverently – knowing how much it means to Harry.

"See what I mean? He was tiny…", and Ron laughs, as he stares at the old clothing – which had been specially tailored to fit Harry.

"You girls…"

"Yeah…we like cute little things like infants, and kittens, and baby bunnies…", I drawl, and he continues pulling items out of Harry's case.

"Just in case", he says at my look of perplexity, "because…they are going to go through it all at the clinic anyway, and if there is anything sharp, they'll snatch it, and put it under lock and key, and who knows when he'll see it again…"

I nod – he makes sense.

He pulls out some sports socks, grayed from use, a couple pairs of boxer shorts, waffle shirts, a blue one with a faint stain on the arm – like old cranberry juice or something.

"Harry loves that one…Sirius bought it for him", Ron says, after a moment.

It automatically goes into the 'send' pile.

A few more items – a Quidditch book, from Ginny, Harry's green pajamas, apple shampoo, apple conditioner, a pencil case.

"Grab that – so he can write to us."

Ron does, and opens it up, "but he doesn't need the whole thing…and we can't give him quills…nothing a muggle wouldn't…"

He stops talking so abruptly; the entire mood of the room has…shifted. Where it once felt warm, reminiscent of earlier times – there is an eerie change in his behavior, his look somewhat…

"What is it?"

"I…", he stumbles, "oh Merlin…oh…_**FUCK**_. Oh…fucking hell!", his voice is strained, "_**Look**_."

He hands me the case – pushes it to me forcibly, and I think to myself, _"what can be so awful – contained in a small case? What could possibly be…?"_

Then I see it. It catches the light like some perverse jewel, beckoning to be seen. I retrieve it carefully.

"Ca..careful…don't cut yourself, Hermione."

A box opener.

Coated in…old…brownish specks. Old blood.

_Harry's blood._

We don't say anything for a long time; Ron – too shocked, me – too sad. But I can't lie to him.

"I…Remus told me about this."

He doesn't breathe for a moment, and when he does, the intake is fast.

"_WHAT?"_

"He…it's…it's why we can't bring him anything sharp, anything with glass or parts like that. Nothing breakable. He's been cutting for awhile, Remus said."

Ron is staring at the photo wall, his face the picture of weariness.

"Maybe Lupin's wrong…"

"He's _**NOT **_wrong, Ron…"

"No…it doesn't make sense…why…WHY would Harry do that? It…"

"Not eating didn't make sense either, and Harry was doing that too!"

He's up, pacing again, _"No",_ on his lips.

"RON. Listen. Please. Remus isn't wrong. I saw it…them…the scars. On Harry's arms. At the hospital."

He looks as if he's been slapped.

"Why didn't you…why didn't you say anything to me?"

"I just **did** – and…it's an awkward, terrible thing to have to face. What was I supposed to do? Sit down besides you in the great hall, and say, "Hey Ron, pass the corn please…oh…by the way…Harry's slicing up his arm", yeah…that would have been just a great way of…"

"You should have said something sooner."

"NO! I should not have…because, some part of me wanted to give Harry his…privacy."

Ron's up, he's taken the box cutter from my possession, and is crossing over to the other side of the room, where he chucks the blade into the trash.

"Things like this…these aren't things you keep secret."

I know that, I do…

"I wanted Harry to be able to come to us. Think about it…the last little while…he's had people force information out of him, control him – at least, that must be how he feels. I care about him a ton, Ron. I know you do too! It wasn't about keeping something from you…I just didn't know what to do! I'm sorry that I didn't handle it better! Maybe…"

He's back to me in a flash, arm on my shoulder, soothing.

"Hey…no…I…get your point. Just…god…what the hell was he thinking?"

_I don't know…_

"We better get the rest packed up. Remus wants to leave in the morning. Just…don't mentioin this to him…please?"

Ron's eyebrows furrow. "To whom? Remus…or Harry?"

"Neither – it's not going to do any good for either of them."

He sits down cross-legged and we finish our task, the levity of earlier – gone.

"I hope you're right, Hermione", I hear him grumble.

------

In the morning, the two of us floo down to London, with Remus, and walk a few blocks past a main Muggle library. Remus has coins for us, already sectioned out in little cream envelopes with our names on the front, in his scratchy cursive.

_For the bus_, he says – but as I count the money, I can see there is much more here than bus change.

Ron holds the muggle money up to the light, transfixed.

"So – what's the rest for?", he asks glibly.

_Clever boy…only playing the fool…_

Remus smirks, expecting the comment.

"Well – you can buy Harry something from the gift store, if you want – no food items, now, remember. Get ice creams for yourselves – I don't know…spend it on what you want."

Ron bounces the coins in his hand.

"Whose money is this anyway?" he asks, and I kick him with my foot.

"Quit being so rude, Ronald", I hiss.

Lupin readjusts the strap on Harry's suitcase, re-gripping the handles to get a better hold.

"It's yours – your money – and that's the end of it. Now, what did you guys put in here, anyway? Stones? This thing is damn heavy!" he huffs out.

Ron begins itemizing, "His – you know – necessities. Two pairs of pajamas, some of these odd muggle runners, his shorts and stuff – a sweatshirt… I know, I know Hermione…yeah, one without pockets, some muggle pens, paper, his first year Quidditch uniform…umm…a photo of us, at Hogsmeade…" and then, as an afterthought, "I hope he doesn't mind us destroying his photo wall, 'Mione."

I dismiss him, and pick up where he's left off, "some books on Quidditch, some of my muggle videos – _Doctor Who, The Twilight Zone_", I count them off with my fingers, "I don't know, he might like them! Uhh…my muggle player…cd player, Ronald – some of my cd's…an ac adapter cord, some _Radiohead_ cd's, a little _Nirvana_…"

_Why are they starring at me like that?_

"Oh shut up…you don't even know what I'm talking about, so quit smirking, Ron!"

He does, and very quickly adds, "no…I'm just…happy to have a muggle expert in our midst."

"Me too", Remus adds, and for one odd, mature moment – I see Remus, much like I see Ron: as a kid, as this young body, this new life – unaware and innocent of so many things.

And I don't know why, but I can't help it – that sense that, more than anything, that child remains inside.

_Harry's child…that little kid…I wonder how he even existed at all…_

_Or did he?_

_Does Harry even have that small, innocent spirit inside of him any more?_

Remus breaks through to me, with an, "Okay – so now I know what teenagers consider essentials: pajamas, for _sleeping,_ movies, for _escaping reality,_ and music – for _tuning out adults_. Did you guys even pay attention to the list? Pack his shampoo, his toothbrush? Because those are essentials…not…_'Radio Ted'_."

I smirk.

--------

The atmosphere in muggle hospitals has always been distinct. I prefer magical hospitals much better. They smell – homey, as strange as that sounds. Like eucalyptus and plants and good things.

The world of muggle medicine is harsh – acerbic – and bites at your chest, generates a sort of sense that yes, you are amongst the sick, and the dying, with the cleaners and ammonia and everything else.

The halls in this place are blue-white. Halogens flicker overhead, making me feel spacey and panicked.

"This place sucks", I hear Ron complain.

Remus, of course, doesn't say anything.

We finally approach a nurse's station – on the eight floor, I believe.

"You guys go sit down for a second, while I talk to Katie…uhh…one of Harry's nurses, alright?" Remus says briskly – no arguments from us.

I nod dutifully, and take Ron's hand, pulling him away so we can sit down on uncomfortable maroon seats. I take in the atmosphere: there are a few yellow-green, sunlight starved fig trees near the check in station, and a clear partition – rain weathered looking, splattered almost – so that you can only make out dull shapes on the other side of the glass. I can see movement – someone moving about near the door, and I realize it could be anyone – a doctor, a nurse…_Harry._

In the center, a white, metallic, steel door – with a buzz code-in system to complete the look of institutional-chic.

We're obviously on a restricted ward. No one gets through that door, unless a doctor okays it first. The thought fills me with…a certain respect, a willingness to be seen as polite, and proper.

"Sit still", I say to Ron, whose feet are hammering away on the floor like a jackhammer end. He stops his fidgeting immediately, and I glance back over to Remus whose still talking to…Katie? – Katie, his expression warm.

"Do you think we'll get to see him?" Ron asks hopefully.

"I dunno", I say absently, still watching the interchange between our Professor and the nurse.

Remus saunters back then, a look of apprehension on his face.

"Katie's going to go let Harry know that we are here. It's…really up to him at this point…"

_Of course…he'll say…yes? Won't he?_

"He'll want his stuff. I know Harry. He'll let us through…", Ron breaks the moment with his assured words.

Remus sighs, clasps his hands together, sits forward earnestly, "I hope so. But you guys have to remember – they are starting caloric liquid supplementation today – or rather, they already have. Harry…might not be feeling very good right now."

"Whaddya mean?" Ron mumbles.

Our teacher cocks his head to his side, features drawn.

"Well…for starters – he's likely to be a little nauseous. That's a common reaction. He may also feel…self-conscious."

"But it's _US _, Lupin", Ron stresses, and I almost laugh – the way he uses our professors name, and I would have, too, if it weren't for the severity of the situation.

"Precisely – he cares what you two think about him…more than anyone else. Or…you two, and Ginny. You know what it's like when you have a cold, or you feel under the weather…or if you've ever felt…for whatever reason…self-aware? Why…all of those feelings are going to be magnified in Harry's case."

_I understand._

I do.

I'm about to say so, when Katie comes back, chooses a seat perpendicular to my own to sit down in, and says, "Well – good news. Harry's up for visitors. He just…has requested a few moments to get changed. He thanked you for the shirt, Hermione, Ron – his favorite, I take it?"

And I almost cry tears of joy over something so simple, just knowing that Harry's mood has been lifted, even the slightest bit, over something as easy and basic as a t-shirt.

Katie rises, says something about seeing how he's coming with the shirt, and I give Remus a look.

"Fractured wrist", Remus supplies, and Ron scrunches his face up.

A few moments pass – and the blonde nurse is back.

"You guys can go through now…but…Harry's not in his room, Remus. He's in the tv lounge."

_Of course he is…_

And we go through the white, metallic, institutional-chic door – our spirits a little lighter knowing that Harry feels well enough to see us.

At least we have that much to go on.

The buzzer rings out harshly – holding its tone – and the red light on the door handle flashes over to green – like a stop sign.

We're free to go through.

--------

Ron is the most bewildered by the sights of the clinic, as Remus has seen everything before, and I was raised in a muggle environment, and I'm re-acquainted with all things muggle-ish whenever I go home for the summer.

"This place is so…weird!" Ron jabbers, and Remus turns back, and says – no trace of humor – "and we don't discuss how weird THIS place is to Harry, do we?"

We continue on, bypass a few other teens – all males – some wearing punk rock shirts, some with shaved heads, some looking completely timid, some looking rough.

"Where's this 'tv room'? What's a tv room anyway…?"

Ron is forgetting our purpose – too captivated by all the new sights, sounds – as if we are on some sort of field trip.

"It's a television room…probably where the kids go to veg out…"

"Veg out?", and I realize I've slipped back into this world of muggle things, and muggle expressions so easily – it surprises me.

"Umm…it means…", but I catch him then: the raven hair, the circular glasses. He's perched up on a ridiculously overstuffed chesterfield, eyes limply watching the tellie.

"Harry!", I say excitedly, impulsively – just so happy to see him. He stumbles, drops the remote, fetches it…puts it aside, looks at me sheepishly as I go to him quickly, Ron and Remus sort of lingering near the entrance of the break room, looking a little uncomfortable.

"Oh Merlin, Harry…", and I indicate that I want to hug him; he reciprocates by hugging me first.

"It's… _"oh God" _here, 'Mione", he says softly, his voice sounding drained, but…_okay_, and the thought, the realization that _**Harry's going to be okay**_ – sets me off, and I'm crying before I know it, and he wraps his arms around me even tighter.

"Frack!" I exclaim, laughing through my tears, and I hear him sniffle too, caught up in the emotional rush of the moment, not caring who sees us, "I'm crying all over you."

"'S fine", he says, almost timidly, his eyes dropping to his lap, while I wipe my eyes clear.

"Oh…God…", I stress, "I missed you. I was so worried. I…"

Ron's here, now. "Let the man breathe, Hermione! Merlin! He's been in an estrogen-free zone for almost a week – let him get his bearings!"

Harry just chuckles, but stops soon afterwards – his throat tight – as if he has a chest infection.

Remus is silent, save for a light _'hullo'_, as he takes his place on a loveseat opposing the sofa.

I try to keep things light.

"So…what are you watching?"

Harry scans the tv – but doesn't say anything for awhile, as if he cannot remember what he was watching, his face growing more upset, scared, as the moment drags on.

"Mate?", Ron queries.

"I'm sorry…they gave me…this…Haldol? It's…a…drug. And…it makes it hard for me to think", he says, apologetically.

Ron doesn't know how to answer that, nor Remus, and Harry looks a little uncomfortable with the admittance.

But I know what might help.

"When I was little – I was given Ativan before a dental operation once", I reply bluntly.

Harry perks up at that, not happy with the content of my speech, just relieved that the focus is no longer on him.

"Yeah, seriously – mum and dad being dentists, well, it didn't help. I was sooo scared and I had to get this root canal because I developed an abscess…and…"

Ron looks put off, Remus is smiling like the Cheshire cat, and I scowl at them for not being more supportive.

"ANYWAY, I remember how I felt…afterwards – sort of, _not real_…tingly, spacey, disoriented. Not fun, huh?" and I stifle my impulse to hug Harry again, simply because I want to hold him. But that would only make me feel better – I know he needs his space.

"Yeah", Harry agrees with my assessment.

Ron tries to introduce a new topic.

"So…what's up? I mean, you'll have stuff to keep you occupied now…you must have been bored out of your gourd, eh mate?"

Harry shakes his head slowly, oddly - my empathic response cutting in, because I can almost feel his disorientation, too.

"I just…woke up yesterday. Haven't…had time to get bored yet", he says as clearly as I know he can with the amount of anti-anxiety medication that is probably coursing through his bloodstream; his voice reminding me of one just awakening from a dream.

Ron comes closer then, scoots in along Harry's other side, and grabs some of our friends' blanket, taking it and wrapping it around himself as well. I give him a look, and he feigns complete innocence. Harry is dreamily unaware – and shares the blanket, not noticing the fact that he's now half-exposed, or not caring.

I can see that he's wearing his blue waffle shirt now – and the green flannel pajama bottoms. His hair is messy, and I quell a mothering instinct to comb it for him.

The three of us turn to the tv, in relative comfort, taking in the show – some kids cartoon, but it's light, and it's carefree, and it's just what we all need.

I wrap my arms around his bony little shoulders, and he sort of relaxes against me, no tension now – and that makes me happy. After a few moments, I feel small, patterned tremors ripple through his body.

Shivering.

_**He's cold!**_

_**Damn Ron!**_

I slowly tug the blanket back, and place it securely once more around its rightful owner, and after a moment or two, the tremors cease.

And that's how we all sit – in the darkened tv room, watching _**Dumbo**_, pretending that everything is totally fine, normal – like we are just hanging out in the Gryffindor common room, my arms laced around my best friend, holding him to me as if I could possibly shield him from any more pain…if I could just hold him a little longer, not let him go.

I don't move for what seems like hours – and what probably is – not until I catch the patterned, slight breaths and I know he's asleep. Ron is quiet too, not wanting to wake him up, and we almost glare at his nurse – Katie (how dare she?) as she comes into our space, loudly.

She catches the scene, and says easily, "I'm going to have to wake him up in a bit anyway – it's almost time to try the NG tube again...he had some difficulty with it earlier, poor thing, so we hooked him back onto his IV. But it's...time now to try again", and I wince then, my sight traveling down to Harry's poor, battered hand, all bruised and matted with blood, a taped in IV line jutting out from the flesh like some science-fiction add-on.

_**Total parenteral nutrition.**_ _**Hyperalimentation.**_

That's bad enough - that's what he's already had, but an NG tube? It's...even more intrusive. 

I've read up on it all. NG tube - nasogastric - they shove a rubber hose up through your nose, down the back of your throat, into your belly, and it pumps liquified calories into your stomach. It's used when a person won't eat - or when they haven't eaten for so long, that easing them back onto food is complicated. It's supposed to be uncomfortable. I assume that 's what Katie means...when she mentioned that he had "trouble". It's not pleasant - he might have vomited again, and with the tube in his throat...it's a choking hazard.

Liquid calories: 3,500 of them a day streaming through to his organs.

_Of course. It's 'dinner time'._

But I don't want to let him go just yet.

He's resting so peacefully – so soundly, and to awaken him at this point seems cruel. He's so peaceful now.

How can I destroy his peace?

---------


	12. I Am Tainted

**Chapter 12** – I Am Tainted

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**A/N**: This chapter is going to try something a little different. It's going to start out being Hermione's POV, and end up being Harry's. Long live fanfic experimentation. ;)

**Scorpiogirl**: I knew something didn't sound right there. (_Oops_)

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Hermione's POV 

------

Katie is waking him not a moment later, as the credits to _**Dumbo**_ come up on the screen.

Harry is, of course, a little out of it at first, but sees the show – sees the credits rolling – and says _"Bambi's over already?"_– his voice foggy with sleep, Merlin bless him.

"_**Dumbo**_", I supply, though I doubt it really matters given everything that still needs to happen, and the complete lack of relevance Walt Disney movies have in the non-muggle world.

"What's up now?" he asks of me, whispers.

His voice holds this edge.

_Apprehension?_

Because he sees Katie, and he knows why she's there, and he's trying to look distracted, trying to look for an excuse that says to the world that somehow he's too busy to do _that_ just yet. So maybe she'll leave…

"Come on mister", the blonde nurse says with false cheer, "we'll just get you hooked up and then if you want, you can come right back to the TV room and spend more time watching movies, if that's how you choose to waste your time…in front of the tube", she half laughs.

I appreciate her predicament too. _I do._

Trying to keep everything seeming like it's no big deal when it _must be_ a big enough deal to Harry, as he's trembling under the blanket. Even though my arms are no longer holding him (_I only allowed myself that luxury when he was sleeping, unaware_) I can still feel the radiating shakes, and it makes part of my heart sting.

Ron, feeling an argument brewing, remains motionless - stays out of it - but Remus says very casually, "You know guys – we've been here awhile now. Maybe we should come back some other time…"

I know that's not what Harry wants, because his breath picks up at the words – races – as if the idea that we are going to leave, and he is _still _going to be stuck with a tube… the most unfavorable occurrence at all.

"Up now, pup. You put up a fight again, and you know they are going to leave, don't you?", the nurse adds, and I feel like kicking her with my shoe at that. I mean, how insensitive! Even Ron couldn't have done better if he'd tried…

Harry watches the introductory credits to _**Lilo and Stitch**_ come up, and says, eyes half closed, "Can I just watch this with them…then do that…other stuff later?" embarrassment evident in his voice, only thinly disguised.

"And drag everything out? Come on…we'll get it done now. Out of the way. Fast. Like ripping off a band aid, hey pup?"

I wonder how it is that Harry seems to collect nicknames. Only Ron and I seem to call him by his actual name. Almost every adult, and many youngsters too, give him a pet name, and I actually doubt he likes half of them.

Yet, to be honest, 'Pup' _does_ suit him: his black hair going off into a mishmash of directions, messy like a Scottish terrier's; his face, open and innocent like a puppy's.

"Harry – I'm not going to ask again," she says more sternly now, and for one rapid, illuminating moment I think I understand how he wound up with so much Haldol in his system already.

_**He doesn't like to be ordered around. **_

_**And I doubt they like to wait…**_

I can sense Remus is about to suggest we leave again, and Harry must sense this too – as he rises abruptly, resolutely, no fight left in him.

I can see the same tremor as before now evident in his hands, compacted slightly into two small fists, probably to conceal the shakes.

He starts to walk away, Ron still mute, Remus looking at his shoes – and both of them must be feeling somewhat like how I feel now: useless, anxious, hurting.

Once he's gone from the room, and we're simply left with the colorful, blithe images of a cartoon girl on a surfboard stream across the large screen TV, I turn and study the other occupants.

There are two other boys present: one, as equally thin as Harry, sporting a _**The Ramones **_t-shirt. He's curled up, pretending to watch the show, not making a sound.

If I knew better, I would say that he seemed a little upset by Harry's predicament as well.

Another kid, maybe a year or two younger than us dons a shaved head and is decked out in a short sleeved green shirt, blue pin-stripped pajama bottoms, his arms… cut…

I stare, not meaning too, seeing numerous red marks all over his flesh.

_Like Harry's arm..._

His eyes meet mine for the briefest of seconds, and I look away, kicking myself for staring.

When I look back again, he's trying to pull down the edges of the shirt, leaving me feeling terrible. Like I've done something cruel.

And then I have the sudden, delirious impulse to go – **NOW** – to go now and be with him, with my best friend.

Because if I'm feeling all alone, adrift – and I'm not even the one undergoing all the poking and prodding and examinations and removal of freedoms… well, how can it not be all the worse for Harry?

"Hermione?" Remus begins evenly, seeing me rise.

"Keep my seat warm for me, Ron. I'll be right back. Stay here you two."

And I hear Ron yammer something about how I get bossier every year, because now I'm "ordering around professors" as well, but I push the thought away because it's ridiculous, and I race out of the TV lounge, past a dozen or so open personal rooms.

Each one is sporting the same white door, the same code-in system from the outside. There are no names anywhere, no distinguishing marks.

_**Merlin…any one of these could be Harry's!**_

I catch a kid with longer curly red hair jog along in the same direction as me, and because it's worth a shot…

"Hey…do you know Harry? Do you know which room is his?"

He gives me a slight smile, eyes not truly latching onto mine, and shrugs his shoulders.

"He's the new kid. He's only been here a few days… dark, almost black hair, round glasses, really skinny… about 5 ft 9?" I qualify, only then to realize that _**all**_ of these kids are really skinny so it's a pointless addition.

He stops his pacing.

"You want to know where his room is? Over there…I think…" and he points to a door which is slowly closing, a room closest to a Boston fern hanging plant, "that's his…" he supplies evenly, and he takes off again before I have time to thank him.

"Thanks", I say to no one, and then jet on over to the door, smacking it open with my knuckles before it completely locks me out.

"_**Harry?"**_ I call out tentatively… because what if they've already begun?

_What then?_

_Will I just stress him out more by barging in here?_

I turn, and see a bed, and then I see Harry on it, rubbing his hands against his pajama bottoms repeatedly as if the palms are sweaty.

He looks up sharply, his cheeks flush, and then he looks down at his legs again; poor guy's in one compromising position after another.

"We aren't done here yet," Katie provides cleanly.

I nod my head – _I know you aren't_, it says; I can see that they haven't even begun, all truth be told.

"Can I have just a moment with him?" I inquire earnestly.

The adult sighs, probably tired of having to deal with teenagers who always drag out these sorts of events.

"_ONE _minute", she answers tersely, and then makes her way to leave.

I stumble over to where she was standing, and I realize Harry still hasn't looked up at me yet.

"What are you doing here, Hermione?" he asks faintly, while I look around his room.

It's white – a very intense white – but the lights are dimmed, and I wonder if that's by his request, his choosing.

Probably not… 

There is nothing on the wall. No plants. No…warmth. Nothing to offer any comfort, any support.

There _**is**_ one window, with gray Venetians, and as I move towards it I can hear the drizzling of a gentle rain.

That is the only source of goodness – this puny window – and only because you can see trees and buildings and birds from outside. It's hope granting. It'll give him something to look at, as opposed to just another wall, just another harsh glare of white paint.

"I don't want you to be here once she comes back…I…don't like this part. I don't want to upset you," he stops talking, studies me.

I can see that it is just beginning to rain now, the sky overcast, nearly dark; the room feels misty – the downpour just beginning.

"Do _**you**_ want me to stay with you…forget about me for a second. Would _you_ like me to stay? I mean…I'll hold your hand?"

The rose colored spots on his cheeks intensify, and for a moment I want to shake that stupid pride out of him. How much does his pride hurt him?

"It's not a big deal. I'll manage…I don't like it…but I'll manage", he squints at his knees, brings them up and rests his chin on them, "I'll be fine."

_**Fine…? **_

_**What does that even mean anymore?**_

_**There are a million versions of "fine", and none truly come close to meaning fine…not when Harry uses the term…**_

"_**Come on**_…don't play the hero all the time. _I'm_ freaked out. This room is creepy. And I don't have to sleep in here, either! So if you want me to stay for this…I will."

I am rewarded with a small smile – barely a smile – but I'll consider it a victory for now.

"Harry…if I can help, _**I want**_ to help", I say again, more insistent this time.

_**Please believe me…**_

He's scratching at his arm - at the space where the IV was last placed, and it's bleeding once more.

"Don't do that", I say crisply, while I take his hand and clasp it with my own, so that he is forced to stop his actions.

"I don't know…if I want you to see", he provides, staccato-ish, uncertainly, "I don't…I don't like this part…"

"_**Don't like this part?"**_

That's probably the understatement of the century, my friend… 

"…and I don't want to freak out with you here", he tries to keep his voice sounding almost glib, but the reality is that no other scene could possibly be more sobering; he knows it, I know it.

It's clear as day.

I don't want to push, but I also know from experience that he never asks for what he needs, so I don't want to give up too easily, either.

"Look, if you _**really don't**_ want me here, I'll go back and wait for you in the lounge. However, if I can help…even a little bit, please let me. You never know…it may not be so bad if I'm here, right?"

He scratches the side of his head, and I'm wondering if this is his way of releasing pent up, nervous energy.

I used to bite my nails.

Maybe Harry scratches?

"Maybe you're right", he says, though I can see that he's at war with himself: not wanting me to see him as vulnerable – yet not wanting me to leave, either.

As if on queue, Katie returns, looking a little less cheerful than in moments past.

"Well, Hermione…if you can wait outside now…"

"I'm going to stay", I interrupt boldly, and then: "I think it might make it go more pleasantly for all of us. You too."

Katie watches me for a second, then nods, as she pulls a silver tray with an assortment of muggle medical devices on it closer to the bed.

I feel my insides do flip-flops and my stomach drops into my nether regions as I take in the instruments:

Hypodermics, with various bevel needles for various injection sites, cannulas, venous catheter parts, a Tuohy needle – which just looks out of place (big, bulky, intimidating, ancient), needle removers, pH paper, and then…there it is…the _NG tube_.

There is also a cup filled with water, and gauze off to one side.

I feel a little queasy seeing the objects intended for puncturing, clawing their way into veins, past skin, into tissue…

Harry doesn't look much better – his face carrying a light sheen of sweat.

Katie hands him the water.

"Like before…remember? When you're ready, take a few sips, and I'll put it down…and cough…remember to cough this time. It'll prevent it from going back into your lung, instead of your belly."

_His lung? Merlin! No wonder he's anxious!_

I have a feeling he could never forget the directions, as he takes the water, staring at the clear, innocuous fluid like it's poison.

"Okay now…scoot right to the end of the bed Harry, and place your back flush against the wall please", and he does, as if on automatic pilot.

I offer him my hand, and he takes it, holds it, and as Katie nears, his grasp tightens.

"_Hey…hey…it's gonna be okay…I'm here. Just put it out of your mind…focus on something good…",_ I whisper, and he seems to listen to my voice for a moment - his breathing slows.

And I relax, **but not for too long.**

I notice then: something odd about him – his face has gone pale; his eyes look dulled – as if a light has been extinguished.

_**Dead eyes…no spark…**_

_As if he's not really here._

As if, maybe, only his physical body is here: his face looks slack, hollow.

"Should I take my glasses off?" he asks almost robotically, and I have an image of him, panicking, knocking them off – from earlier, from before.

Katie doesn't give a yes or no response, mainly probes, "Do you think you can remain still this time?" and then I realize how keyed up _**I'm**_ feeling.

He nods, but removes them anyway - placing them gingerly on his bedside table. I can't take this android routine any longer – it's freaking the living daylights out of me!

"_**Harry!"**_ I say sharply, causing Katie to flinch…but failing to earn much of a response from him.

"_What's wrong_, Harry?" I try again.

He seems to be out of it - doesn't reply, and I'm confused.

_**He hasn't been re-injected with anything…**_

This whole setup is starting to make me suspicious.

_**Something's not right here.**_

Harry's not going through this normally at all: it's almost as if he's completely shut down, as if a part of him has broken off and gone somewhere else.

_**And why can't anyone else SEE THIS? **_

_**Feel this?**_

"**Stop** Katie…just…give him a moment to…ready himself", and I know it sounds foolish, because she's already been patient.

But I sense that we are at a crossroads, and that if we keep pushing him…we are going to do a lot more damage. Way more harm than good. And enough harm has already befallen him…don't they _GET_ that?

"Harry?" and I rub his shoulder, quickly taken aback by how cool he feels to the touch.

"What's wrong with him?" I ask tensely, examining the nurses' face: she seems to get it now…seems to understand that this whole set up is wrong.

That something is wrong with him.

She puts the tube away, looks at him once more, and I know she doesn't like the blank expression either and is starting to worry about this nearly mute Harry, too calm, too…_**absent**_.

"He feels like ice!" I hiss, mad that it has come to this.

She pushes back the tray, takes the water glass from his hand, and sets it back down on the table.

"Listen pup…I'm going to go talk to Dr. Nugent okay? I'm sorry buddy…I didn't realize how scared you were...", she states, her voice regretful, but he doesn't say anything, just breathes rhythmically, his eyes a little red like he's been crying, only he hasn't – and nothing makes sense.

To me she adds, "have you ever seen him like this before?" her facial features distorted with concern.

"No…I _haven't_. But he doesn't like to be pushed…I mean…Harry always needed a certain level of control. More than anyone else, and it didn't have to be obvious…but if you forced him into stuff…" I trail off, "And he was pushed into _**all of this**_. I think he's just dealing with it the best way he can!"

She's gone then: off to get Harry's shrink I bet, and I find my protective instincts going into hyper drive once more as Harry's frigid and emaciated little frame rests against my much sturdier one, as if begging for protection.

_**How did this happen?**_

I turn on the only lamp in his room, and switch off the glaring halogen.

"That's better, eh?" I ask, my voice sunny, my gut rolling, squirming – like maggots are worming their way through to the surface.

He pulls me back into a hug – something that he seems comfortable with recently, but only with me, I realize faintly – and I match the strength of the hug, not wanting to overwhelm him.

The room is brighter now in a warm, inviting sense – the lamp glows pink, offsetting the harshness of the hospital-room white.

I put his glasses back on his face, slowly pull him back up into a seated position, rub his hands carefully, observing the old IV line injection sites.

"What's going on with you, huh? Where did you go just now?" I breathe, and then more insistently, "Harry?" as if I can snap him back into reality if I say his name a little louder.

But it works, because I see a look then, like a cloud passing over the moon… the moon once again bright, unclouded.

"You're still here?" he says plainly, his voice etched with confusion.

He brings his hands to his face.

"They didn't give me the tube?" he asks dazedly.

_**God, you're scaring me, Harry!**_

"Harry…what do you remember…I mean, what just happened?" and I'm not sure I want to hear his response.

"You said you'd stay with me?" he asks, as if not completely sure that this is the correct answer.

"Yeah…but then…_afterwards_? Then what?"

_**Merlin…this is like pulling teeth. **_

"She didn't put it in?" and I can sense his anxiety.

_**He doesn't seem to remember.**_

"You…didn't seem like you were here anymore", I provide, "I mean, of course, physically you were. But you scared me…your eyes…your…" my heart is going way too fast.

_I can only imagine how fast his is going…_

"I'm sorry I scared you", he says, sounding all at once impossibly young, impossibly small – like a child, as his bony limbs draw up into themselves, trying to make himself smaller yet.

"Stop it!" I say, aggravated, "_**STOP**_ apologizing for this…this _ISN'T_ your fault. Just work with me here. After Katie came to get you in the lounge, you came back to your room. And then after I came to see how you were, and before Katie tried to insert the tube well… **what do you remember?**"

He blushes again, his eyes falling to the bedspread.

He knows something

_I can tell._

I just hope I'm not pushing him too much, either.

But how can anyone know? If a question needs to be asked, and it's not a pleasant question – and none of this stuff is pleasant or easy – then how do you know how much is too much?

_**Without him speaking, letting us know what he needs…**_

_**How can anyone know what to do?**_

"Look…I'm not going to try to force it out of you…but if any part of you is confused, well, two heads are better than one for figuring out tough things, right? Like in Arthimancy class?"

He makes a small rip in the bedding, and I want to tug the blanket out of his fingers, because it's an obvious distraction for him. He's fixated on it, with staring at it – not wanting to look up at me.

"It's like I was gone…someplace else," he says, reluctantly, and I didn't expect him to speak at all. Shocked when he does.

"Do you remember… where you went?"

"The forest. A forest."

_**A forest?**_

"I was walking in a forest. I could hear wind…and birds…and I could see sunlight coming through the trees", he voice is laced with something like awareness.

Though I wonder how aware he really is of this whole situation and of what he is saying really means…

He looks up at me, eyes fulgent, shining.

"God Hermione…am I losing my mind?" he cries, his fingers beginning to clench and unclench, spasmodically.

"Of course not! You didn't want to focus on something unpleasant…and you focused on something pleasant."

It's right there – right under the surface, and if he doesn't hear the right things soon…he's going to explode.

"No…it was too intense. _Too real._ It shouldn't have been that real! I'm completely nuts, aren't I? I _**should**_ be in this place, shouldn't I?" and he looks around, saddened, upset, and I can tell that more than being confused, and more than being scared – he's **angry**.

He's battling down rage.

Then, for one heightened section of time...it becomes almost as if I can appreciate what he's feeling. The grief.

I stifle a cry.

"What was that?" I say not knowing how to begin, or if I should begin, "Did you _FEEL _that?"

He looks completely nonplussed.

"No…I…?" strangled voice, and I have to stay calm for him.

"It's like I felt…_**you**_…what you were feeling."

He shifts on the bed, retrieves the pillow from behind his back, and drags it to his lap, using it as an armrest.

"Like Occulemency?" he breaths, uncomfortably, and I know what he's thinking then – that he doesn't want me to able to see his thoughts, know what he knows. He wants some things to remain private, I know that much now. I can sense it.

"No…I couldn't see your thoughts or anything, it's more like…_I felt_ everything so intensely…but just your feelings now. I felt…"

"That doesn't make sense, Hermione…"

I'm up then, walking to the window, feeling something way too strong – emotions that are too intense, that _aren't mine_.

_**Or are they? Was it just…empathy?**_

I let my hand roam over the metallic screen, enjoying the coolness of fresh rain against my palm.

_**An empathic response?**_

"Maybe we share something…like a bond or something…"

_**It was so…intense…**_

And his embarrassment is gone as this new idea, this new concept, is introduced.

"You mean…like some…weird…psychic…episode?" and for the first time since I've seen him in the hospital, he smiles, amused.

He's more interested in what I am saying right now, than what has just passed. Or else, he's convincing himself to become interested…so as to ignore the other unpleasantness.

I let myself appreciate that smile, but quickly return to this new development.

"Don't knock it! I felt…fear, and anger…"

"Maybe it was just _**your own**_ fear and anger. Cause, like you said, this place is creepy. And maybe you were just angry because you didn't want me to be afraid", and his mouth shuts up tight before the rest of the sentence is completed.

As if he's mortified to admit that _yes_, **he**, _**Harry James Potter**_, is afraid of something: as if I didn't know this previously, as if it were a secret.

He tries again. "I don't believe in…well, I don't even know what you are implying here…so…"

Gears turning, ideas coming fast and readily now: "Why _NOT?_ I mean, maybe I do share some sort of connection with you…you with me…"

"With me?" he provides plainly, with a tone implying_, 'why would anyone want to share anything with me?'_

Harry's doctor is back then, Katie in tow, and I move away and take a seat on one uncomfortable, yellow chair, sharing a look with Harry that clearly reads: _**we will discuss this later**_.

The gentleman's eyes scan the room – look at me, and he asks, "Ahh, a friend?"

_**Well, no kidding… **_

_**I guess small talk is a little forced here.**_

Remembering to be polite, I offer my hand. "Hermione Granger. I'm one of Harry's best friends from school", and the doctor shakes the limb easily.

"So…" he begins, exhaled pause, "I hear you had some sort of…event earlier, Harry? Panic attack maybe? Is that what?"

_**Should I go? **_

Harry squirms in his bed, and Katie is watching me intently, before saying, "Hermione seemed to notice it first, Dr. Nugent. She brought it to my attention, actually, so we stopped…."

Two faces then – this…Dr. Nugent's, and Harry's. Both rise up to meet my own, interestedly.

_**I mean…what is good etiquette in this situation?**_

"Really? That's…quite…perceptive of you young lady. And you realized he wasn't just forcing himself through the event, a forced calm…how? You knew this _how_?"

_**I'm bugged by his tone, by his voice.**_

Sometimes I am too stubborn for my own good. I suspect this is why I was placed in Gryffindor, and not Ravenclaw.

"'**He' **is right here", I growl, and the doctor gives me a patronizing smile – all fake and horrid and I want to slap it off his face, but I can't.

_**HE, Doctor, is sitting two feet from you. **_

_**Don't talk as if "he" isn't even in the damn room!**_

I feel even more badly for Harry then – stuck amongst sick, depressed adolescents, and fake, infuriating, pushy adults.

Nugent turns, studies my best friend, "Do you remember what happened, Harry?"

_**At least he's talking to him now…including him in the discussion.**_

But of course, Harry doesn't recall much – not really, and this whole evening has been stretched out.

One embarrassing incident for the poor guy after another, the sense of time feeling warped: as if every event has been slowed, like molasses, draining from a carton in the dead of winter.

"I guess I was nervous…cause…of before…cause of this morning…" he starts.

_Before?_

_You mean before…with the Haldol injections, the displacement of your glasses? _

_Held down while a rubber tube was forced through to your gut against your will?_

_That "before"?_

I'm mad for him again, hurt for him, and he senses this - I'm sure of it - because he seems to gauge what to say next with a certain deliberate cautiousness.

"I didn't want to make a big fuss this time…I hate…_**hated**_ how I acted earlier. I'm…sorry."

_Oh Harry…_

"I just remember feeling…sort of…numb? Maybe? And I took off my glasses…and I couldn't see, really, and it's like…I was gone. For a little while", he finishes sheepishly, as if he's done something wrong – something bad or immoral, and he's being forced to fess up to this big, bad, evil thing.

The doctor seems to be weighing the words, studying the equipment, and comes to a decision.

"What if we set you back up with the IV tonight and you watch the rest of your show with your friends, and then we try again with the NG tomorrow morning? It's not…optimal, but I don't think we should try again with enteral feeding right now. Does that sound like a plan?"

Harry's body settles back against the bed, spent, as if he'd been holding all the tension inside until that very moment.

"Yes sir", he intones crisply, "I'd…prefer we don't try again tonight. Thank you."

_Always painfully polite, aren't you Har'?_

I can sense his relief. It's palpable.

------------

**Harry's POV**

------------

Hermione is trying to pretend that nothing just happened.

That I didn't just undergo some sort of a **freaking breakdown**, and I appreciate that – _I do_ – but I almost want her to get mad at me, vent at me.

I'm starting to scare myself, so I know her equanimity is all a ruse.

Plus, if I were to be completely honest with myself, I'd realize that I used to choose…to leave, to 'go away', if you can call it that. However it happens, when I feel myself fall away, go outside of myself – I used to choose to do it… it used to be something I willed into existence.

But whatever happened tonight wasn't something I initiated.

It just happened, it just occurred – but I don't remember seeking it out, trying to remove myself in any way. I just remember trying to calm down, trying to be strong, telling myself over and over that _yes, Hermione was here_, and _no, nobody was going to hurt me_, and _yes, it would only be uncomfortable for a moment._

Katie's cleaning my hand with an alcohol coated cotton swab now, and old red from dried blood smudges off onto the white, pure, hitherto uncontaminated bit of cotton which is now becoming contaminated by…**me.**

She then deposits the used tissue into a nearby waste bin, where it belongs given I'm all over it - and taps my vein with her finger.

"Drop your hand please", she instructs easily. This is all routine for her, commonplace, and I let my hand fall down to my side.

She continues pressing on the vein, trying to make it protrude more so that she can stick me with the needle again. Start a new line somewhere else, because my hand is already turning black-blue and I guess she doesn't like that look on me anymore than the next guy.

"I think this one has collapsed", she says sourly, and I have no idea what that means.

"I'm going to go get a hot water bottle…see if we can't cause some other vein to pop up – though we may have to put the new IV in a little higher."

I see Hermione wince at that, her mouth puckered up like she's bitten into a lemon.

"What's the matter?", I say, keeping my voice steady.

_**Please don't think I'm a freak. I'm sorry I lost it. I'm sorry…**_

"Your hand is all…bruised, and they are going to poke around and try to raise up a blood vessel?" and she looks like she might be ill then, "Oh yuck…that sounds…frack! God!"

_Frack._ Hermione's version of _**Fuck…**_

"Are you going to throw up?", I ask, "You look like you might…"

Hermione's always been squeamish of blood.

And she didn't come in here to see me get hooked up to a new IV line. She thought she was going to help ease me through a different sort of experience – one far more panic inducing for me, but not at all dealing with needles or rubbing alcohol.

I clear my throat.

"Please go watch the show, 'Mione. This stuff doesn't bug me as much as, well, the other stuff", and at her look of bafflement, because I know she's blood phobic, I say defensively, "I don't like IV's…who would? But it…doesn't feel so…"

"_Intrusive?"_ she supplies helpfully.

"Yeah", and I swallow, "It barely hurts, and once it's in…I can't feel it, and so I can ignore it…and…"

I feel okay now – bolder, stronger, and I say a silent blessing for Hermione's friendship, for her stubbornness, her understanding.

Katie's returned with the hot water bottle.

"Lay your arm flat against the railing, please", she states.

I do as asked, and she applies the blue plastic bottle to my flesh, the heat causing my arm to go from white to magenta very quickly, and veins in my hand rise up a little better this time.

"I think we've found something that works for you, eh Harry?" Katie smiles, happy with the result.

It's no secret that I'm colder than most here, and blood vessels constrict when you're cold…

She uncaps the edge of a syringe, connected to a hollow needle. I can see the plastic tubing of the IV line already set up, already plugged in, and she taps the end of the metallic point, squeezing the line, and rubbing off some of the yellow saline discharge onto a piece of paper towel.

Hermione looks transfixed right now, but in a second I know she's going to look sick…because Katie's about to plunge that line into my vein.

It makes _**me **_a little queasy, and I'm not even sensitive to blood anymore… But the action, the feeling – of something poking into me, something against my will…

_I hate that._

"You might want to look…over at the window or something, Hermione", and she does, right before the needle tip enters my hand quickly, stings, like it's hot, and I almost congratulate Katie on a job well done as she has seemingly put it in on the first try.

Katie examines her handiwork, happy, and all things considered…so am I.

After a few minutes, I can feel the coolness surge into my body, sort of like if you drank ice-cold liquid and felt it moving out of your stomach and into your veins. But this is so much more direct – the sensation unnatural and absorbing.

"It's done now?" Hermione asks, her voice sounding light, as if she's trying to keep that queasiness from overpowering her.

"All done", I confirm, and I feel…clearer now. From the lash of pain, probably – which was one of the things I used to get from my razor. I felt…better afterwards, calm and focused.

But, incidentally, I think the drug is exiting my system too.

Katie's just started to clean up, when Hermione asks, "Why can't he just stay on the IV and then - when he's up to it, switch to gentle foods?"

My nurse sighs, belabored, "I'm going to talk to Dr. Nugent about that, actually. There is actually an IV line that can be set up for long-term use. It's called a PICC line… and it would go in…" Katie reaches out and touches an area near my lung, "here".

"But", she adds, "it's a lot harder on the body in the long run. There are more problems associated with it. We usually save it for those that are comatose, or those on chemo – because they'll get too sick, and void anything that goes into the stomach."

I catch her examining me seriously, "And Harry? You are _not _comatose, and I know if you gave the NG a shot…it would be easier on your body…you'd be able to get off everything…all these things…the IV, the tube…so much faster. Wouldn't that be better?"

I don't understand, not fully, why they _can't _just let me try…eating – like Hermione suggested.

Maybe I'll ask Dr. Nugent about it in the morning.

-------

**A/N**: So guys…do you want me to switch back to Harry's POV now? Try someone new? Ron? Although, I have the most difficulty writing from Ron's POV. Ginny possibly? SNAPE? (gasp! Now can you imagine him in a muggle hospital? I can…but just barely. **Laughs**)

Next: I know I'm posting like gangbusters lately, I know, but I can't keep up this pace forever. ;) Actually, we're going to be having guests staying with us in a bit, and I have to get the old condo all ready for them. So no promises on when I can next update. May be a couple days, may be a week or more.

_Reviews…_

**IronWoman: **I have difficulty writing non-POV version stories, actually (blushes). It's something I should try to do more often. Even when I try to get away from it to have this…general narration…rarely happens. I usually slip back into POV writing, very vignette-y stuff, almost. Maybe I could try working on a few ficlets after this story wraps up, huh? Would be a good exercise for me, I'm sure.

Btw, your review wasn't cheesy _at all_. I loved reading it! Feel free to post a message anytime – or even if you just have general ideas about the story, because I'm always open to suggestions. :0)

Can I ask, very quickly…are you English? Because I'm Canadian myself, and I use the "bloody hell", "bloody brilliant" phrases et al. But none of my Canuck friends do. I'm betting it's probably pretty rare to hear it outside of England or the UK. That's what being raised by my anglophile mum gets me…a merged Canglish (Canadian, and English) language. ;) (My mum was raised in England herself, and my Grandmum never lost her accent).

**Crazykids**: I think I am finding the Remus/Harry mentorship angle the most fascinating to write about, too. I've always found those two an interesting blend. Both seem a little low key, introverted (although Harry is the most extroverted of the introverts – **giggles**) sensitive – _especially to the needs of others, if not themselves_ – and what can I say? _**Prisoner of Azkaban**_ was my favorite movie of the series thus far, and ties with _Half Blood Prince_ as my favorite book of the six I have read (I haven't read _Deathly Hallows_ yet. I'm dying to do so! Borrowing it off a friend soon…).

I also screwed up on the bit re: Hermione's hair, versus Ron's. Oh…you know which part I mean, I'm sure (I'm just being lazy by not expounding).

Regarding Frankl – for English? Was it a very existentially focused English course? (grins). Did you also read _Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?,_ _Brave New World_, and _1984_ in that particular course:) Anyhoo, Viktor Frankl is…absolutely brilliant, imho. You might like him, even if you don't have any philosophy background (or little).

**Scorpiogirl**!YIKES! I knew that it didn't sound right (of course it's Bertie's, not Bernie's – what was I thinking? **hits head on keyboard**)! That's what I get for writing at 3:30 in the morning. (impish grin).

**Sbforme, BrightFeather, Yeeww, Pip3, Livingiseasywitheyesclosed, RedKitsuneFlames, loveseverussnape, MagicalWinry, breannatala, Imago** (waves!): thanks for reviewing! Keep 'em coming...they make my day!

**Inthetelling**: I guess, the reason why the muggle hospital is featured in this story is because the world of magic seems to be quick, painless, and getting through anything like this…is far from quick or painless. I didn't know how to maneuver Harry through any sort of recovery when the physical body would be readily healed, and yet he'd be amongst these magical folk who are used to having things happen much more quickly.

Besides, I've come to the conclusion that magic doesn't fix everything. I mean, why does Harry still wear glasses? Questions…so many questions. :) To keep the story seeming more authentic – or as authentic as any _Harry Potter fanfic_ can get, I guess, I wanted to stick to a world that I was somewhat familiar with too… Were my motivations somewhat selfish? Oh, probably. ;)

**Hopie**: Your English is just fine :) You should hear my Japanese! Now _that's _scary…


	13. All These Promises

**Chapter 13** – All These Promises

-------

**A/N:** Snape's POV. rubs hands together _Poor Harry._

------

-2 Weeks Later- 

**Snape's POV**

------

I do not know how I find myself in these positions.

One moment – I'm teaching my 6th year Potions class as peacefully as I can, a task made easier given no Potter – and remarkably, no Longbottom (out, having sliced his hand open during a Herbology exercise, the dimwit!) – when I am accosted as the shift bell changes by our headmaster, and the ever meddling Lupin.

Remus Lupin obviously wishes to speak to me; he's currently mulling around, hands shoved into his pant pockets like some adolescent school chum.

"Severus – if you may, I think you can help us with a certain issue", Dumbledore begins, his mood less than genial.

And for Albus Dumbledore to be in a less than chipper mood, well, that's far from being an encouraging sign.

"I have to ready myself for the next lesson, Headmaster"; I try to say sternly, glaring at the mass of cauldrons that have been clumsily cleansed, if at all.

When will the idiot children learn how to conduct a simple _scourgify_ incantation?

It's one of the easiest spells to learn.

Lupin is a little more insistent. "I'll help you prepare, if need be. This will only take a few moments anyway", he angles, in that _I'm reasonable_ voice, a voice that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight and anger froth in my gut. I just hate that _sound_…

I do sincerely hate _**whenever**_ this man speaks, of course.

But ignoring them has not yielded a favorable response, nor has chastising them for cutting into my time: time needed so that I can deliver a proper lesson – so that I can properly do my job.

"One moment, please – and then we will leave." Remus begs.

But it's never simply _**a **_moment.

People come to me with requests, and only requests: they do not stop by to 'chat', to share gossip, to congratulate me on seeing through, somehow, even more prideful Gryffindors during Potion exams…

Lupin closes the classroom door, and I find myself simply going about my business in general, repressed agitation: cleansing the improperly cleansed cauldrons as he begins to ramble on about – well, whom other than the pride and joy of the wizarding world?

"You need to see him. I am not having any…impact any longer. He's just shutting down. The muggle doctors call it clinical depression."

I huff into a cauldron, stifle a snort.

"Potter despises me, or is that less than noticeable to you?" and I whip out my wand, ready to recite the charm so badly needed to remove blistering gillyweed from countless half-cleansed cauldron rims.

"That's exactly why it's _**YOU **_that needs to see him. You'd have some impact. Any reaction would be good at this point."

I want to laugh at his lunatic mutterings, but given the fact that he is dead serious, I'm having a bit of trouble in doing so.

"What are you on about, Lupin?"

I look back to Dumbledore, who is watching the exchange with great, patient interest.

Remus sits down on my desk top, carefully moving some student essays to one side.

"Look, do you think I'd come to you if I really thought you'd make things worse? If things could be made worse?"

I have no idea in Merlin's Army what that means… 

"The request does not make _sense_," I try to say without exasperation, "If I were a person Harry trusted, I would go – _perhaps_. If I were a person he halfway _appreciated_, or dare say…_liked_, I would possibly entertain this request. But I am neither, and I fail to see how one Potions professor whom he hates about as equally as the Dark Lord himself – will be able to achieve anything – regardless of the state that this boy is now in."

Remus is up and pacing now, and I watch, with semi-fascination. He must believe I can be of _some_ value in this particular situation, or else he wouldn't still be lingering around with such fervent hope.

Dumbledore begins to rise from the small wooden seat - a student's desk, speaking up for the first time.

"Harry needs a …jolting influence right now, Severus", he says worriedly. "He sent one child in the hospital to…well…the hospital. A separate ward, I guess."

_What sort of kook-ish insanity is the mad hatter on about now?_

Except…if he's implying that Harry has been acting violently. Something I cannot truly visualize, imagine.

Then again, he has acted, undeniably, in a violent matter towards his own person. Perhaps Potter is simply more volatile than any of us ever considered.

"What did Potter _**do**_?" qualification is essential.

Harry Potter, as infuriating as he is sometimes – as boastful, as egocentric, as cocky – has never been known to harm another – not willingly.

His protective nature, if anything, is a primary reason as to why he wound up in some godforsaken muggle clinic so quickly with his spleen removed: he had been protecting another _against_ violence, against harm.

But this new information… 

"Explain what Potter did. Explain why. And maybe – _maybe _– I'll listen more thoroughly to this ridiculous request, to this idea that somehow I should go and spread my cheer and all will be made…better."

Lupin doesn't crack a smile at my comments, and given their irony, I find that shocking. He was always a cheerful character: jubilant, warm, prone to laughter – which was probably one of the reasons why he was so popular in his day, and I… _wasn't_.

"Harry…attacked another boy on his ward about a week ago. He was put into what the muggle's call "solitary". It's like a cell…_sort of_…and although he was supposed to be off his NG tube by now, he's not…because of this setback. He tried pulling it out several times already, angry with the placement…or angry with himself, I'm not sure."

Remus looks even more concerned than I thought was humanly possible, and I check my watch: 10 minutes until the next lesson. They've already eaten into my preparation time.

And now…what's this? Something called an NG tube? It's a muggle term, and I am in the dark here.

"An NG tube?" I try slowly, hopefully having heard the term correctly, "what is that, precisely?"

Remus brushes back his hair with one hand. "Nasogastric tube – it's like a rubber hose, that the muggle doctors put through Harry's nose…and down through the back of his throat and then into his belly. They pump about 3,000 calories worth of liquefied food through to his system throughout the course of the day."

"Forced feedings…" I understand now, "…and it sounds barbaric. I have no trouble understanding why Potter would…excuse the joke…pull the plug."

I laugh at my own play on words, but Dumbledore looks _irritated_, and Remus actually looks angry.

"Damn it Severus! This isn't a laughing matter. Just…do yourself a favor. Think of Harry as being someone else. Anyone else…or, I don't know…as being _**Lily**_. Because I do believe this rift between you and him has more to do with his father than…"

"Enough", I growl, off-put with the idea of a primitive muggle device being forced down Lily Evans' throat. Scratch that. _Lily Potter._

"It's a good exercise for you, though – isn't it? I saw your expression change. And frankly, I don't think you'd even see this new, strange being as "Potter" anyway. He doesn't look _like _Harry…he certainly doesn't act like Harry anymore. His thought processes don't even make sense…"

"_They never did_", I huff, and am rewarded by Remus' silence, before I add, "So he did the one normal thing he may have ever done… he removed a bulky, muggle medical device when no one else would – which is something that makes moderate sense to me, at least. Kudos to Harry for this advancement."

"Makes sense, huh?" the man before me seethes, "yes, it's makes _**a ton of fucking sense!**_ Let's just completely ignore the fact of _WHY_ he was intubated in the first place, why don't we? Because it _couldn't_ have anything to do with the fact that he starved himself down to an emaciated state in the first place, could it? Because _**THAT **_wouldn't make a hell of lot of bloody sense! He's making just so much _**sense**_…that he's wound up in the equivalent to a jail cell for the past week, off in some drug induced stupor because he wouldn't stop pulling out a device intended to keep himself alive! Or stop shredding his thighs to ribbons with a contraband paper clip that he sneaked through! And to think…how foolish I was! I thought those things were _dull _before!"

For all my past aggression, the anger I've felt towards him previously…I cannot help but be horrified with what I'm hearing now.

_The child seems to be utterly…lost. _

I cannot deny the fact that these actions speak of a terrible lack of self-respect…not egotism, not…conceit.

"Do you _**like**_ knowing that each time we visit him – me, Hermione, Ron – _and those kids have been nothing short of amazing_ – that he just gets worse, and worse? Do you like the fact that he's in his own personal hell? That something was said to him and hurt him so much…that he broke a kid's jaw, broke his nose?"

Perhaps they are wrong. _Perhaps…_

"Harry Potter has never so much as _tripped _another student, to my knowledge. Nothing more than the typical roughhousing certainly, typical adolescent horseplay…"

It is not inconceivable that the child is just covering for another attacker. That does sounds in line with ridiculous, and misplayed Gryffindor loyalty…

"He _**did**_ do it; his _**own doctors**_ saw him tackle the kid to the floor, Severus. That's why he wound up in confinement in the first place. I think – when he fully realized what he had done – he just got worse. They had him in restraints at one point, alternating that with drugs…I guess which are the muggle equivalent to potions. He's not even been awake, fully, for more than a few hours a day this last week. And each time we try to see him, he denies our visitation requests."

It's beginning to make a sort of twisted sense.

_**He's shutting down because he hurt someone.**_

Whether it's guilt or revulsion at seeing his dark side emerge, his violent side – he's not handling it well.

So he's emotionally deadening himself to all of life and purporting a slow suicide through starvation - his idea as to acceptable punishment.

_As a sort of over-the-top reaction to feeling anger in the first place?_

But they think… _what exactly_?

That I can go and speak with him, and he'll actually allow me through, and his anger will return and be directed towards…me?

And all of this is supposedly going to be cathartic for him? Going to help him heal?

The idea is almost scoff-worthy.

_Almost._

Because the part of me that becomes rapidly drained by teenage drama is recoiling from this entire mess, but then there is a part of me – a small, but annoyingly persistent and obsessive part - that is interested in seeing if any difference can be made by my playing the role of instigator. Whether the others will speak of it now, Harry's life means more to the wizarding world simply due to the prophecies, his role. They see a wounded teen; I see an essential player in a larger war.

-------------

After my final class breaks for the day, I return to the dungeons, pocket a small vial of healing balm, and pack a small duffle containing muggle money, maps, and contact information. I check in with Dumbledore and Lupin once more in the headmaster's office – this time going over, in greater detail, the pertinent information as it relates to getting in and out of the clinic without arising suspicion, which items to take through to Potter, which questions I should ask of him if I do in fact get "buzzed" through and so forth.

"Harry is not allowed food items", Lupin reminds me, which sounds utterly ridiculous.

The kid is starving himself – and food items _aren't _allowed? Wouldn't any shot at getting him to eat something be better than none at all?

Bloody stupid muggles… 

Remus senses my frustration, and expounds: "He's on a restricted diet as it is. A change in his routine will make things more difficult for him. They want to stick to his current meal plan right now, no exceptions."

Meal plan?

I find that wildly optimistic, considering there's a good chance I'll find the boy in restraints by the time I arrive…

"No glass or sharp objects, of course…" he adds distractedly.

I have great difficulty not rolling my eyes.

"You mean I cannot bring _cutting_ instruments through to the self-injurious Potter? That these items are restricted? I'm entirely _shocked_…"

Remus catches my glare, matches it with one of his own.

If only the exasperating man didn't say such _insanely stupid_ things sometimes...

'_No glass, Severus, nothing sharp, remember.'_

How idiotic do they think I am?

Their comments are an insult to my intelligence, and yet the man is still watching me, still trying to discern whether or not I'm taking this seriously or not.

"I will not attempt to bring through knives, camping skewers, disposable razors, box cutters, sharp metallic jewelry, glass picture frames containing photos of myself or the rest of the Hogwarts…gang…I **get it**", I spit out, and he backs off.

"The name to ask for is Nugent. Sanderson Nugent. That's the name of Harry's psychiatrist. He should be on call right now…so…"

Off with me, then - yes…_I get that too_.

I turn to leave, when I hear Dumbledore say softly, "Good luck, my boy", Remus adding, "Yeah…good luck Snape."

Snape, huh?

What a shame.

Just when I thought he was starting to warm up to me, too.

-----------

I had forgotten just how much I _disliked_ muggles by the time I finally made it to Central London, several blocks from the hospital. From their inane blathering on devices called "cell phones", to the adolescent gum-smacking brats on the subways – they are simply a rude, obnoxious subspecies. Most make the Granger girl look like an absolute delight by comparison.

Walking up to the clinic doors, I almost trip on some litter…a plastic beverage container. Picking it up, I read the label. _**Zero Apple Fanta,**_ whatever that is… I find a receptacle container soon afterwards in which to deposit the empty bottle. Disgusting, filthy muggles…

I then see the clinic, see the entrance side, parking information for the muggles' cars, odd little black machines asking for coins. Some sort of parking arrangement so they can park - "Towing enforced", a sign reads.

I make my way into a hallway that look obscenely white, harsh and glaring, and smelling of solvents, antiseptic, before I stop at what appears to be the ground floor nursing station.

"Harry Potter", I say gruffly, and the blithe woman gives me a dumb smile, as if she hasn't heard me, or as if I've been speaking in some sort of alien tongue.

Again, louder, "I'm here to see Harry Potter."

She pushes thick glasses up on her nose, "and do you know the ward, sir? Patient names cannot be disclosed to just anyone."

'Just anyone', huh? 

"I am a professor from the boarding school where this boy typically resides. I was asked to come here."

Cheeky grin, annoying parsing. "For confidentiality reasons, I cannot confirm whether or not a young man of that name…"

"Look…I _KNOW_ he's here…I need to be ushered through, thank you."

The woman looks less chipper now.

"I can only direct you to the correct floor if you provide me with a doctors name; if you have called ahead or time, or if this is a planned meeting, the person you spoke to will verify this information on the ward. I can only direct you to the proper ward…"

I pinch the bridge of my nose feeling a migraine coming on. And sadly, guzzling down odd vials of greenish liquid will look rather suspicious in the backwards muggle world, so I'm just going to have to put up with the pain, or deal with some godawful, useless muggle medicine that probably works about as well as something Longbottom would have concocted as a first year.

---------

Finally, after what seemed live an hour of roundabout talk with the dullest nurse I've ever had the displeasure of speaking to, I arrive at the 7th floor, and walk towards a ward called "1B". There are garish red markings on the wall, highlighting that yes, we are at the right place. Ugly, ostentatious arrows pointing, also in red, the direction one should walk. How sad. How pathetic. Especially considering the fact that this floor _only has _two wards: 1A, which I've deduced is for severe adolescent depressives and the suicidal, or ward 1B – Harry's ward – populated by…I'm not sure.

_Those who require tubes and forced feedings to preserve what's left of their weak bodies, perhaps…_

"Potter, Harry", I grind out, having finally found the right floor – and angry that my time has been so devalued as it stands.

The next nurse is perhaps in her late 20's: pale blonde hair, white shirt - cleanly ironed, cream nametag proclaiming her name to be _Katie_.

I recognize the name as one of Potter's nurses.

"Professor Remus Lupin sent me to speak to…Harry. I understand he has been turning away his visitors?" I try to sound impassive. I did not waste an evening for nothing.

But then I remember the list, and pull out the neatly folded parchment that Dumbledore gave to me.

"I'm supposed to talk to a Dr. Sanderson Nugent, if I had admittance problems?" I supply, "Apparently they have already informed him of my coming…"

The girl nods, eyeing me suspiciously. Evidentially, I do not pass for average around here – even dressed in tan muggle slacks, simple leather loafers and a dark navy, oversized sweater. I hate the clothing, but it has proven necessary for the excursion.

"Well, it's really up to Harry…whether or not he feels up to seeing anyone. I can go check…"

"Since…of course, he has been making such fabulous choices recently, hasn't he?" I try not to sneer, but she rises a little more quickly.

"And your name? So I can tell him who is here?" she asks me brusquely.

_Right_.

Because he'll want to see _me_.

I think for a moment, before offering, "Please inform him that his Chemistry Professor wishes to discuss alternative test times for his…exams. Lest he miss more school…and irrevocably screw up his future…aspirations."

It's not exactly the truth, as his passing examinations are the least of _my_ concerns but the boy is not an imbecile. He'll understand that "chemistry" translates into…Potions. Potions are, of course, so much _more_…but also the closest Hogwarts discipline to the muggle subject. And for my own reasons, I'd rather not broadcast my very magically inspired name amongst the muggles – most suffering from cretinism, no doubt.

She nods tentatively, her look one of reservation, and returns within a matter of seconds. At first I feel like accusing her of only having ducked behind some door, but then she speaks.

"You can go through. He is in his room. It's the closest to the main entry door – room 701. If, however, he changes his mind about visitors at any time…you will be asked to leave."

She's eyeing me still, and I inwardly groan. As if I even want to be in this ridiculous clinic in the first place.

--------

The door to Harry's room is cracked open slightly, and I'm starting to think that Lupin has lied to me about solitary-anything. As it stands now, the boy could just walk out and consort with his…unnaturally skeletal looking friends. I double-check the number of the room: 701. I have the right place.

For a millisecond, I debate knocking, but then brush the idea aside. Potter has already been informed of my arrival. Knocking would simply be superfluous.

I enter quickly, and take in the area just as quickly. The walls are bare. There is a potted plant on a table near his bed, and what I think is a photo or two sprawled out on the top of his nightstand.

The boy is in bed. Apparently he never bothered to change out his pajamas today either – his hair messier than normal, his eyes bloodshot, his skin unnaturally pale, a yellow tube feeding through his nose, his face looking swollen.

The small green t-shirt he wears highlights his true thinness, somewhat concealed before by billowing robes and oversized school clothing.

_And to think…he's already been here for…nearly three weeks…how much thinner was he when he arrived?_

He looks up as I fully make my way into the room, not saying anything, his eyes falling back down on some muggle magazine. _National Geographic_?

Making my way to the nightstand, I look more intently at the plant.

His hand lurches out to grab the plant, his expression almost fearful.

"Herm…" his voice sounds scratched.

"Miss Granger gave this to you?" I supply, surprised he's even talking to me. I certainly can report that he's doing better. The others will be relieved.

He nods curtly, pulling on what appears to be a little white card staked through into the soil. He removes it quickly, and puts it under the mattress.

"Why are… you… here?" he asks, the sound distorted, the words isolated from one another. Cut up and awkward – as if he has a sore throat.

I fiddle around in the tan pockets, and retrieve a vial – small and inconspicuous, designed to look like a roll of muggle antacids.

"Pull the tab off and drink it, Potter. It's a healing balm…you will be able to speak without pain…and it will reduce the tension in your stomach…for whenever…that device is removed", I point hesitatingly to the tube, protruding from his nose like the trunk of an elephant. Wide and nearly flesh coloured.

Wrong thing to say I guess, as he fiddles with the line that wraps around his ear, as if trying to disguise the whole mess.

"Do not even waste your time. I do not care. I am here at the insistence of Lupin and the headmaster. I was informed that you were in…solitary?", I test the word, and watch his cheeks flush crimson.

"Not…not…this morning I came back here."

I see. Freshly released. I suppose his newfound freedom is to thank for this relative politeness.

But for Merlin's sake…drink the damn potion you foolish boy! 

As if reading my mind, he picks up the 'roll', pushing the vial up and out of the fake paper packaging, puncturing the metallic seal with his teeth.

"Will…it…?"

"It will not interfere with…anything. It's completely safe. No side effects. Though highly effective as a pain reducer."

_Why am I spending time cajoling the impudent child? No skin off my nose if he's in pain._

But he takes the small vial, brings it to his lips, an apparent tremor in his hands. I suspect that has more to do with the medieval muggle medicine he's on…rather than true anxiety.

After a moment, I step back, satisfied. The concoction, while largely pain reliever and magical anti-anxiety aid, also contained an infinitesimally small amount of veritaserum. Not enough for even Potter himself to notice the effects of…not enough to force his hand, just the smallest amount to lower his inhibitions. At the dose I added, he'll not even suspect it…but I know the substance is already coursing through his system, already taking effect, as his body relaxes, the high nervous starts and stops of his breathing mellow out.

Of course, the most interesting thing about veritaserum is that, in extremely small doses, it works to cause suggestive comments to take root. It can actually help change behavior patterns, similarly to the famed, if ill-studied muggle phenomenon called hypnosis.

"How do you feel now?"

"B-better."

Slight hesitation. The boy is so used to keeping things to himself he apparently has difficulty in admitting when he feels poorly or not.

"Less pain of your throat?"

I have to take the time to test everything out first. That's only wise.

"Yes sir. And my…stomach…doesn't feel so swollen."

_Is that relief I see in those eyes?_

But what shocks me most is his addition of the word "Sir". _**How proper**_. And he's not even in a position whereby his precious Gryffindorian house points can be detracted.

"Why were you confined, Potter?"

More hesitation. "I hit someone", he says regrettably.

"Oh?"

"Hurt him a lot", and his eyes study his hands at that.

"I assume you hit this person for a reason."

_Not a question_.

"Of course", but I can hear the gulp as he swallows.

And frankly, I really could care less. All boys get into fights at some point or another, and I have a sense that Harry wasn't the perpetrator here, even if he may have been the first to launch a blow.

"At any rate, I am not here to discuss your…skirmishes. I am here to discuss your plans…regarding recovery, so that you can return to school. For reasons I'm sure I don't have to elaborate on, and regardless of what Lupin feels, I doubt this is the safest environment for you. And, more than that – every day that you stay in this…environment…you risk certain, how should I phrase it? Truths…being revealed of our…establishment. Which put other peoples lives in jeopardy too…or rather, make the lives of others harder. Do you realize the lengths Lupin had to go to so that you could receive treatment here?" I finish.

The boy looks slapped, but the truth must be spoken. No more coddling. It hasn't done him any good.

His expression now looks resigned… haunted, and I ignore the small part of me that is squirming in regret.

"Next time Lupin comes, see to it that he is allowed access. I do not care about how you _feel_…certain safe guards need to be maintained, and your emotions aside – those that come here with any regularity obviously do care about you. Your…turning them away is unbelievably self-centered and narrow sighted. Do you think people keep trying indefinitely?" I hiss. I feel myself becoming more and more aggravated, which is somewhat of an unforeseen development. The boy hasn't been rude or dismissive. That in itself is perplexing.

"Why did you let me through?" I ask evenly, after I've gotten my anger in check once more.

"The stuff…the drugs were…out of my system…and I wanted to see what you looked like in regular clothes", a hint of a smile at that, the little bastard. Then his eyes go wide, as if he can't believe he just admitted that fact.

I try to recall whether or not I took Harry's new body weight into account when I created the veritaserum-anti-pain remedy.

"Stop your selfishness, eat the blasted muggle food…and get out of this dump before you cause a lot of problems for a lot of people. That's the least you can do!", and I depart suddenly.

This kid, as sick as he is, has some nerve.

And I don't even wait to hear his reply, if he has one.

I know I've given him enough to think about. I know his weak points, I know he detests being seen as a burden. And if I have to play that card to stop some emotionally maligned teen from starving himself to death, I'll do so.

-----------------

**A/N:** I had started this chapter a while ago, and it sets the stage for the next few chapters. I know it seems anticlimactic, but in a very real sense, Harry has already gone through quite a bit, and is undoubtedly exhausted. There is a stage of emotional deadness that I think accompanies events of these sorts sooner or later; not every day is intensely painful…some times, you truly do feel numb.

For those who want more Harry/Remus POV chapters, please be patient. They are coming up next.

Right now, my life is insanely busy, but I promise to update as soon as is possible and as often as I can. :)


	14. Into the Trees

Chapter 14 -

**_Into the Trees_**

-------

**A/N:**

I almost wanted to bypass a note here, but that's just cowardice. ;)

Afterall, _some _explaination for my absence is probably better than nothing.

Suffice it to say I've been quite sick lately - last few months especially so, although the last few _years_, technically, haven't been great. This culminated into a necessary E.R. trip in late 2009, and a diagnosis of a twisted intestine and slight blockage. (Treat your body with respect guys! Don't ignore pain. It's a messanger of health, or lack thereof! So...listen. It is speaking for a reason.)

_End of lecture ;)_

In the meantime, I want to thank everyone for their patience and understanding re: updates. You guys are awesome. Truly.

Oh, and I should mention.... formatting on is being a royal, royal pain. It is altering, very much, my original writing, and document manager has actually 'eaten' quite a bit of my work. Hence the relative shortness of this chapter. (I thought I'd update with smaller chapters, more often, rather than attempt longer chapters which need to be reformatted and which risk being 'eaten' each time I save...)

This, unfortunately, does change my 'style' of writing - and the flow of the words, and the intended spacing. :/ For that, I'm sorry.

------

**One Month Later**

_Harry's POV_

* * *

I'm supposed to be asleep.

Or, if not sleeping, I'm supposed to be resting with my eyes shut, my body clothed in pajamas, my frame...motionless.

Because it's 3:44 am. That's what my alarm clock tells me -- with a display of massive six-inch electric-red squared-out numbers.

**3:44 AM!**

The numbers scream at me: 3:44 AM! 3:44 AM! and a then a soft electronic click onto an even more hysterical: **_3:45 AM!_**

Lights out here is 10 pm, and now it's nearly four in the morning.

**_And_** I have to meet up with Remus and Hermione tomorrow...

_'What are you doing, pig?'_

Well, technically today, as I may get to go 'home'.

_'Possibly.'_

Which is, perhaps, why I can't sleep.

_'Which is **exactly** why you can't sleep.'_

Instead, because I'm so keyed up about leaving, I'm decked out in my grey sweatpants - new sweatpants that Ron brought on his last visit (I'm so freaking fat now and really couldn't wear my others any longer) and a sports jersey, doing crunches in the dark. Well, almost in the dark...as there is the unsettling red stream of light from the alarm clock to keep me comfort.

I close my eyes against the light, which, along with screaming, now seems to be reprimanding me GET TO BED! Strangely enough, in Hermione's voice too.

When I rise upwards for the...who knows?..._thousandth?_ time, my hand stills near the sound option, and moves the feature alarm ring from 'radio' to 'alarm'. I might miss anything too soft this morning, and I'd hate to doze through the alarm, only to have Remus and Hermione trundle down to my room to see what's up. That _WOULD_ be a nightmare! Me - dozing, my clothes - unwashed and unpacked...

Totally unready.

* * *

My whole body is actually really sweaty now from all the exercise, and I don't like it. Not at all. But I'm going home tomorrow...

_'Today. And it's a*maybe*...you are MAYBE leaving today! Don't forget, it's not definite!'_

...and I can't go back, not like this.

Not like this.

_'You better set your alarm clock back another hour, Potter. You'll need a shower to get rid of some of your filth, won't you, pig?'_

On the next upswing, I hold myself rigid and bat at the alarm setting once more. Remus and Hermione are all scheduled for...10 am for our 'meeting' to discuss "the next necessary steps to ensure we don't have a relapse, if we decide on release." Or some such crap.

_'Better set the alarm for 8...'_

Shower will take about an hour. It always takes me at least 45 minutes on a _good day_, even if I haven't done hours of exercise the night before and look like a total mess...

Plus, I have to give myself time to actually _wake_ up. I'm not a morning person. Never have been - not even when I'd get up to run around the castle at five in the morning.... I really didn't choose to go jogging so early because I _liked _it. It was a necessary default, given no other possible time option.

And breakfast is at 9:15 am; given the amount of food they'll make me eat, I won't be able to do that in under a half hour. There's just no way. So that gives me some time to go over my room once more and make sure I've packed everything else up...

_'They said you MIGHT be able to leave, pig. They didn't say it was a done deal! Don't get too excited yet...'_

* * *

I'm supposed to have this whole..."family counselling" period with Dr. Nugent tomorrow. Actually, I was supposed to have at least _three_ before release, but considering I've gained enough ( **_*puke*_** ) and I've been able to refrain from any_ "obviously self-harming behaviours," _and have kept down my food like a good little boy, Dr. Nugent sort of was amenable to Snape's suggestion for release.

Yes, _Snape_. Of course, it wasn't out of love for me that Snape raised it as a suggestion. It more or less had to do with Remus, and his 'condition' making routine trips to the clinic sort of difficult-to-impossible after more than a couple weeks.

So these last two months, Snape's had to step in and offer his "services" whenever Dr. Nugent decided they needed to hold some sort of conference about me or my "progress." Remus has come too, of course, when he could - although he's been sicker than is typical, and for longer stretches of time...

_'It's because of you, you waste of space. He's stressed out because of you. YOU'RE making him sick, piggy....'_

But Snape's been able to be more _consistent_ about it, really, and I think that's what the doctors in this place want for me. "Consistent support," or something, which would probably drive Remus really nuts to hear that, considering he might actually care about me a little, while Snape wholly _doesn't_...

Actually, I'm a little surprised Snape came to even one of the assigned...meetings. I would have sworn on my very life he'd have rather let me rot in here.... Of course, if it wasn't for my "purpose," - I'm sure he would have. I have no doubt about it.

Anyway, the release is a "monitored release deal," if it happens at all. And apparently the only way Dr. Nugent is going to seal the deal is if I have some sort of drawn out therapy session with an "adult I can trust" and at least one person I consider "my family." They finally let me settle on Remus and Hermione. I choose Hermione because, well, she's seen more of me at my worst, she's seen me _cry _for God's sake.

Ron hasn't seen nearly as much of all that... and with a little luck, he never will.

_'You might as well preserve what little dignity you have left, you fat little shit.'_

I don't think they get many orphans in these places.

* * *

When I finally decide to turn in, the alarm bitterly informs me that it's now "5:01 AM," and I decide that maybe I can stop. Three hours of situps and I feel like I'm bleeding, inside - my stomach leaps around like a rabbit, but the feeling is one of heat and prickling. I feel as if I could sick up battery acid.

It _**burns**. _Much more than I thought was possible.

Plus, my spine hurts. My back *stings*, and when I go to put my pajama top on, after changing out of my gym shirt, I notice dotted patches of red-brown in a nubbled pattern all the way down the fabric - from midback to the end of the cloth.

Mobidly curious, I quietly roll up a bath towel, and wedge it alongside the seem of my door, carefully, slowly. Then I turn on my light, and head on over to the change mirror opposite my bed.

I try to turn and see if I'm still bleeding, but it's hard to see my back entirely. I swivel my head as best as I can, and feel a slight sense of unease at just how purple and yellow-green and _crusted_ my back is...

_'Couldn't feel that, freak? You really are a freak show, aren't you?'_

And then, I know in my gut...that I **have** to be released tomorrow. I can't stay here another day, certainly not another week. Because Tuesday's are weigh-in days, and Dr. Nugent never lets me weigh in with a t-shirt on. Pajama bottoms and that's it, and even sometimes then, he has me roll the sides up to make sure I haven't 'added' anything to bring down my weight artificially. I mean, it's all very random.

_'They see this blood, these bruises....you'll be here another two **months**, you sick little pig!'_

I change out of my sweats then, angry at myself, my heart hammering away in my chest. My stomach feels queasy now too, and I furl the bloodied top and pants into a little ball, shoving them under my bed.

I then reset the alarm for "7:00 AM."

I'll have laundry to do now...

* * *

**!EEEEP! EEEEP! EEEEP! EEEEP! EEEEP! EEEEP! EEEEP!**

Blasted fucking alarm.

My eyes take in that it's "7:01 AM!" and I groan. How could I have possibly been asleep for almost two hours?! I just shut my eyes!

_'Isn't that what you wanted, pig? You didn't **want** to be too...alert today, did you?'_

I have no idea what sort of questions Dr. Nugent is going to ask me. I don't know what they'll make me discuss. But it could be _anything_, and I don't think I want to be feeling too right now. Not with Remus there, nor Hermione.

_'You don't want it to hurt...'_

I think I just want to feel numb.

I strip quickly, making sure my door is shut - especially since my back probably looks like a million bludgers slammed into it now...and I go to lock the door, out of habit, before I realize stupidly...that there aren't locks on any of the doors here.

Not even the session rooms, which I don't think makes much sense. I mean, we get into pretty intense stuff. Isn't it going to...hinder some of that...willingness to share? Not knowing if some nurse or resident is just going to waltz in on you?

_'You'd never spill your guts anyway. Even if they soldered the door shut, freak. Little chicken shit freak...'_

You never know when one of the intrusive nurses here will just barge in on you. It doesn't matter if most of us are obviously a little..._sensitive_ to being seen naked, or near such. You'd think our emotions didn't matter at all.

Only Katie would ever knock, but you never know when she'll be on room check duty. So it's not really as if you can let your guard down.

Not for one second.

At any rate, I manage to get into my clothes for the day, and shove my dirty shirts and pants and such into my hamper bag in record time. I settle on a bright red t-shirt followed by a black hoody. I highly doubt my back is still bleeding, but if it is, I don't want to broadcast the situation. And black should act as necessary camouflage, just in case.

* * *

One reason I didn't do my laundry last night, ignoring the fact that I would have still had to wash my sweats and top this morning _anyway - on account of me being an idiot -_ is that Dr. Nugent is the evening shrink on call. The doctor assigned to handle "my case."

And apparently he is concerned with how often I take showers, and wash my clothes, and _clean_....

_'As if cleaning is a bad thing...'_

Also, hardly any of the other residents do their laundry in the morning... out of those that are _allowed_ to do their own laundry, that is.

Apparently we are too screwed up to do laundry unassisted until we reach the right "level." Because, who knows - we could make ourselves sick up in our rooms, couldn't we? We could sick up on purpose, and hide the sick in our clothes, and then wash everything right away, knowing it'd go right down the drain. And that, done _often _enough, could prevent "necessary weight gain" or some such crap.

Which is, honestly, something I hadn't even _thought_ of doing until one of the other guys here, Liam - mentioned it as being the reason why our laundry had to be monitored.

And I know it's an all guys floor and all, but I can't help but think of the other ward, the girls ward, and how much worse it must be for them...

_'Do yourself a favour, Potter. Don't think so much, you sick pig.' _

It's gross really. Not just the fact that they _watch_ us all the time, like when we want to do anything _private_ like take a shower or go pee... cause that's bad enough.

But that they'd handle our things, go through our clothes...._touch_ them? Our dirty clothes? It makes me feel all awful, for some reason. Like...._sob-awful_, and I really, REALLY don't want to cry here, in this place. I don't even know where that feeling comes from, anyway, and that disturbs me almost as much as anything else. If I'm going to feel something, I want it to make sense.

Although I honestly think that's why I ate their goddamned food and haven't "slipped up" in awhile, too. At least - since that day Snape came to lecture me about what a waste of space I am, what an ungrateful brat.

_'At least he speaks the truth, pig!'_

I mean, sooner or later, they'd make me gain. Even if they had to keep me hooked up to the NG tube all the time, or put in a line. And then I wouldn't even have the benefit of_ tasting _anything as they turned me into a fatter waste of space.

But yeah...the laundry thing...I think that was really the turning point for me. I mean, these doctors and Remus _and _Snape and everyone are already digging through my _life_, my past, my reasons -- but to dig through my clothes? Somehow that feels like a real...violation. Maybe because my clothes are physically here, in space, and questions...questions are _questions_. They dissipate. And I can manuveur somewhat with questions.

_'Unless Snape is grilling you. He can just slip into your mind then, can't he? He can just mind fuck you, despite how hard you fight, just like good old Unc...'_

***Shut up. Get out of my head!***

The idea that someone would want to touch my things makes my stomach clench up and drop down to the floor, simultaneously. It makes me _want_ to get sick, just to get rid of the horrid feeling churning in my gut.

It makes me want to vomit, even if I have nothing in my stomach to bring up at all.

* * *

When you live in a place like this for any amount of time, you get used to schedules. Which is fine. I thrive on schedules. I'm sure a lot of the other guys do, too.

Except this morning, because my awareness of the passing of time is on hyper-alert. I feel as if I'm waiting to be marched to the gallows.

Which is nuts. I should be...relieved, somewhat. I mean, I might get to leave here today, right?

Plus, I'm more than ready.

_'Oh, are you really, Potter?'_

I'm washed - _'Scrubbed more's like it, right pig? Good thing Katie made you cut those claws, or you'd be pissing blood right about now, wouldn't you?'_ - and my clothes are washed, dried, folded and organized in my sports bag. Everything is ready to go.

I even have Hermione's little plant, the one that she gave to me weeks back, settled on the lounge table, near Dr. Nugent's office door. It's been watered and everything....

Everything's done. Everything is fine. Just fine. I'm on time. Everything is perfect.

And where is Nugent? It's 10:**_05_**.... I thought the appointment was at 10?

_'They are probably still in there. All of them. Discussing what a freak you are...and how you really shouldn't leave...'_

I want to knock, and I don't want to knock, and then I hear my name being called - soft, pleasant.

"Hey pup! You leaving today, isn't that right?"

Katie. I smile the warmest smile I can, even though it feels like a grimace. I stop, realizing that, because I don't want it to look forced.

I don't want her to take it personally.

Katie really is a terrific intake nurse. She made a lot of the time here...easier. She made so many of the procedures...bearable.

She's sort of like Hermione that way.

"Harry..._Harry_?," she sing-songs, and snaps her fingers in front of my face, trying to get my attention.

I look up then - hopefully not too dazed.

"I think so. Yeah, maybe," I gulp down my nervousness, _"yeah?"_

She chuckles, but nothing about the laugh is done in mocking.

"_Yeah?_ That sounds like a question, not an answer. Of _course_ you're leaving, pup. It's why I brought you this," and she foists off a small parcel, with a taped on card-in-envelope. The name on the front - HARRY! - is artistically done in gold ink, calligraphy style, embossed with some sort of shimmery powder. She's drawn a little gold and black dog with floppy ears near the name, and I feel like my throat is swelling up.

_'Get it together freak! It's just a card!'_

I don't make a move to clear my eyes, because I know that would draw attention to them....I don't want her to see that the damn things are tearing.

_'Maybe you are allergic to kindness, is that it, pig?'_

"Thank you," I mutter, unable to look up, and god damn - I can feel my cheeks burning as well. Just like I have a _crush _on her or something, with my heart racing and everything.

Which is ridiculous.

"Should I open it up now?," I try not to sound too hesitant. But I'm feeling totally off kilter today.

She gives me a grin.

"Nah. Not necessary. You can open it up later if you'd like - that's probably best. I just wanted to give you something to remember me by... and to focus _on_. To keep in mind when you get out of here. So you don't find yourself back here. Not ever."

"No?"

She actually musses up my hair then, a little. Like I _AM_ a pup. It's sort of embarassing, almost. But Katie's like that.

"Don't get me wrong, sweetie. You're an awesome kid. But this isn't the place for you. I mean, I'm going to miss you lots, but I still don't want to see that floppy little mane around here again...."

I smirk, and kick at the base of the table with one green converse sneaker. I **_know _**my face is burning now, and I actually wish I could kick _myself _for being such a moron.

Time for diversionary tactics.

I reach into my backpack, and extract a pad of artists paper, and flip through it a bit.

"I...uh, this...," I hold out a sketching. "This is for you, too. I didn't know if I'd be leaving today or not. I was hoping you'd be on staff, and you are - so everything...works out," and my voice drops off stupidly then.

_'Everything out of your mouth is stupid though, isn't it?'_

She takes the photo, gingerly, like it's precious or something.

"Good gawd, is that _Sassy_?," and she brings a pale hand to her mouth, and laughs a little. A teary little laugh, and suddenly I don't feel quite as ashamed.

"That IS Sassy!," she squeals, delighted.

Sassy is Katie's cat. Or rather, _was _Katie's cat.

A siamese. She died last summer, when she squeezed out between the front doors of the flat as Katie was getting ready to leave for work. Some stupid idiot was driving their car a little too fast, and hit her, before Katie could grab Sassy and tuck her back inside.

"Harry, oh sweetie - it's beautiful. It looks just like her! Thank you."

I'm sure I mutter an _"you're welcome." _

She looks up, face open, honest. "You did all of this from _memory?_ From that one photo I showed to you...like...for twenty seconds, a month ago?!"

Sassy wasn't an outdoor cat. She wouldn't have known cars could be dangerous.

Anyway, one day, after this silly group session exercise - where we had to show pictures of our _family_, and I choose to show everyone a photo of Hermione and Ron, because they _are _my family - I was grousing to Katie about how unfair it was that staff can ask us questions, and always expect answers, but never share anything of themselves.

So Katie told me the story of Sassy, her cat. And how she had been killed - and how she had been family, because Katie herself had grown up in foster care, or something, and hadn't been particularly close to _anyone_ before she'd emancipated herself at 16.

"Just from _memory_. Incredible," Katie muses again, more to herself, shaking her head. "I didn't know you were so amazing at drawing, Harry. I'd have commissoned you to draw all my cats."

I decide to clean my glasses with my sweatshirt. That way I don't have to look her in the eye.

"I still could?," and I'm sure my voice squeaks then. **_Damnit_**.

_'She should have called you mouse, not pup - you fat freak...'_

"I mean, if you showed me their photos? I have a great memory...," and I will my voice back to normal. Amazingly enough, it works.

Katie is still studying the portrait, and says, somewhat absently, "oh, you must."

**'Where is Nugent? What's taking so long?'**

"I know I could do it."

She's helped me a ton. I'd love to do something so small, if it'd make her feel better. I can at least draw her cats. I mean, they're her _family_, and what sort of gift is a drawing, anyway?

"Sometimes, _sometimes_...things I see, I don't _ever forget_. They just stay in my brain for all time."

And I'd have thought she'd be pleased at the offer too, or else I wouldn't have even spoken. But now, looking up at her, at her - **silence** - I see her eyes look almost..._sad?_

"I'm sure they do, pup. I guess that makes sense, huh?"

Then I realize with delayed stupidity what I've admitted to: that I just can't let things _go_, that I just can't _forget_, and I find it all so...

I'm not sure. Unfair, maybe, for this to happen, now.

It was just an innocuous comment, and why do people always have to look for some hidden meaning in things I say?

_'Because you're a fat, screwed up **freak.** And it's their job to find out why. It's their job to **fix **you...'_

So that's what I'm thinking about when Nugent finally opens his door - **FINALLY! **- and steps out, at 10:**_19 _**am, looking every ounce the dignified kid shrink, his stupid jacket and sweater and everything in place, his voice _abundantly_ calm, his voice...apologetic?

I mutter my _"see you later"'s_ to Katie, and bend down for my backpack, hoisting it over my shoulder. From this angle, I can see Hermione too, looking fairly...anxious, her brown eyes trying to find mine, a small, timid wave of her hand, her mouth puckered up in an expression of, well, apology as well, if I'm not mistaken.

_'Oh great. This is it. They're probably going to tell you that you can't leave after all this....that you're too fucked up.'_

But that's not it at all.

And I don't come to realize it fully until after I've slumped deep down into the chair they've provided for me, and Nugent's pulled the door shut, locking it.

_**'Oh. So they can lock those doors. Freaking liars.'**_

The thought, however, is gone in a flash when I hear the words, the sound of silk, impossibly dangerous:

"So...can we get _on with it_, then?," and I turn towards the voice, turn to see **_Snape_**, not Remus; Snape's eyes meet mine for only a nanosecond, although, even in that time I can see the smallest amount of amusement playing across his features.

I'm out of my chair like I've been electrocuted, and I know I look silly.

"Now Harry!," my doctor's speaking sternly, as if I'm being unreasonable. As if _I've_ not done something properly.

"No!," I huff out angrily, stiffly. "No! I'm _not _doing this today, then. I agreed to talk to you and _Remus, _didn't I? I didn't agree to talk to anyone else but Remus and Hermione."

Nugent purses his lips, Snape is rubbing his temple slightly, as if he's warding off a headache, and Hermione's eyes are on me - large and upset. I will myself to calm down and listen to any alternatives.

**_'I'm sure you've upset her enough as it is...you've screwed up everything...'_**

"You're sure *I've* screwed up? You are me!" I internally hiss back, except it's probably not _entirely_ internal - cause Snape's looking at me like I've lost my mind, and Hermione's looking disconcertedly at the floor.

But Nugent's just confused.

"And what was that, Harry? Come again?," and the poor man really looks perplexed, because he heard me muttering, but didn't hear the words, and how can he dissect anything if he doesn't hear the words?

_'And if he can't dissect the widdle piggy, until you're nothing but guts...what's there for him to do, really?'_

Of course, I'm not about to repeat myself during one of my...episodes.

_'Episodes? Oh you're so full of crap, pig. You're one big walking head case.'_

Cause I'd never get out of here then. Not in a million years.

"I said_..."you sure have screwed up. Why are you doing this to me?"," _which isn't _too_ much of a lie, but it's a lie all the same and it gets Snape to snort, then proclaim, "Yes, _well_ - while we're being _honest_..."

Hermione's head snaps up, and I know she's planning on playing referee, like always.

"Please. Come on. Please. Let's...everyone be reasonable."

_'I'm sure Nugent would love to dissect Hermione, don't you think, Potter? Hermione and her fond attraction for reason...'_

She tries again. Apparently she "has the floor."

"Please Professor...I'm sure Harry is just a little..._uncomfortable_ with this whole situation. I mean,_ I'd _be...if I was banking on talking to someone else. It's not the who...it's the change, having everything changed on you...without even being notified."

**_'Oh Hermione. You're really too sweet.'_**

You are also completely wrong here, love.

It _is _the who.

It's **_exactly _**"the who".

And I can tell from the semi-concealed sneer on Snape's lips as he catches my eye - that he knows all too well that's exactly my issue, Hermione's efforts to mollify everyone not withstanding.

I pull the hoody up tighter around my head, and push on the toggles a little more until I'm firmly ensconced in the black material.

I just wish I could fade away sometimes.

_'This is going to be a long day...'_

------

**A/N part deux:** Although originally longer, I'm going to have to leave it at that for today. In the future, I'm going to be much more careful about saving my own work, and not relying on to save anything properly.

Again, I apologize for the delays. I had never meant to abandon this story. And I haven't, not strictly...but still. Too long.

At any rate, here's_ *clink*_ a toast to getting back on track. =) I'll try to update weekly.


	15. Let the Hours Pass

Chapter 15 - _**Let the Hours Pass**_

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_**Snape's POV**_

------

Well this is just....peachy keen bloody _fantastic_.

First, these bloody muggles can't seem to get a simple idea through their blastedly thick skulls. It's not as if calling the headmaster, on a specially designed-for-_this-PURPOSE _telephone is a _difficult_ task to grasp. A two day 'warning' for a conference on a student's...mental health....really isn't sufficient at all. Not when taking into account the classes that need to be adjusted, and the tests that could possibly need to be rescheduled.

**_'Bloody thoughtless muggles...'_**

You'd think these muggles mistook us all for people who didn't have _lives - _for people who didn't have a care in the world, other than to be at the beck and call of one overglorified 'doctor.' I can feel a sourness building up in my core, and rub my head in a weak attempt to relieve some of the tension.

_"Please. Come on. Please. Let's...everyone be reasonable."_

Granger almost sounds like she's begging. In a manner of speaking, she probably _**is**_ - if for no other reason than to have this tired charade come to a close; a Friday, afterall, is still a school-day, and I have no doubt that any absence - but particularly a pointless one - is not most aggravating for her.

_"Please Professor," _and she looks at me then, beseechingly. Eyes wary, pathetically timid smile forming on her lips. As if she needs to mollycoddle me to prevent some sort of disastrous outcome.

The _disastrous outcome_, so to speak, is sitting not two feet from her, in large muggle clothing, topped with a wretchedly oversized nightmare of a jacket swollen up over his head. But I guess, all in all, it's also a fairly common sight in this place...because this..._Dr. Nugent_...doesn't seem to really look all that surprised by Potter's clothing choices.

With his glasses off - _I can see now he's rubbing at the lenses with one of the sleeves of the garment -_ his face pale and drawn from his weight loss, he doesn't even resemble the boy he once did. He doesn't really resemble anyone other than a skeleton, really - although I can tell he's put on a modest amount of weight given the last time I saw him...

_"...I'm sure Harry is just a little...uncomfortable with this whole situation. I mean, I'd be...if I was banking on talking to someone else..."_

I catch Potter's eyes then, as he's just repositioned his glasses on his all too bony little head. I can feel my mouth twist into a smile at the girls words. _Granger? _Seeing a therapist? Whatever _for_? An inordinate amount of studying to a degree that could signify the possibility of an obsessional disorder?

Although the words are not meant to be amusing, I know, and given the bratlings glowering look my way, I can tell he's not at all amused by _my_ amusement either.

Nevertheless, Granger's still rambling.

_"...It's not the who...it's the **change**, having everything changed on you...without even being notified."_

There is some truth to that statement, of course. Mind you, I'm starting to wonder if her assertion that the main issue today is really correct - for I'm starting to think the change of characters in this..._tragedy is far less important_ then the subject itself....

Harry's now pulling at the little dangling strings from the outrageously extensive _thing_ that's covering him, and tightening the cape portion up even moreso. I'm sure now, that if he could, the boy would simply tug on the cords until the whole front of the garment was occluded... if that would prevent him from having to look at anyone else today.

"Stop that," I mutter, my voice lower than normal, and softer too. Barely a whisper, but the desired result is achieved, and he stops with his tugging, letting his arms come to rest on his concave little lap, only the fingertips seen - the rest of the arm, and hand, swimming under the excess of material.

What had Granger called it? A _hoody_? Where he was _acquiring_ all these hoodies was anyone's guess, although he seemed to have at least four or five different ones already, that he would wear in rotation. Each one as ridiculously huge as the next. If anything, oddly, the size only seemed to accentuate his thinness, although I highly doubt that had been his objective when selecting the items. Or in requesting them, if that should be the case.

"Dr. Nugent," I decide to take the reigns, given that the psychiatrist in session seems more interested in the children flittering about like anxious little animals or scowling at their professors than actually directing the conversation towards its necessary end...

"I can imagine..._appreciate_....Harry's reservations at discussing the conditions of his release, especially when he was originally informed a different teacher would be here for these developments..."

The brat has the temerity to look back at me with a muttered, _"you never call me Harry, why start now?....," _and I squelch down my retort. I do not enjoy having my time so needlessly disrupted, and if Potter simply wants an extended stay in the clinic, I'm almost tempted to let him fulfill those desires at this point.

Of course, the good doctor in question, takes this opportunity to broach the first subject worth broaching, and I shift in my seat, getting comfortable.

"Harry...is there something you'd like to have addressed?"

Potter shakes his head back and forth for a few seconds, and the motion is almost imperceptible.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear your response," another fruitless attempt.

A soft chocking sound, like a dry throat coughing, clearing - and I realize, that's exactly what it is: "I just said_...."You never call me Harry - why start now?" _- to Sn- to _Professor _Snape, I mean."

His slip up not unnoticed, and I grin to myself, before willing the grin to die away at his next words.

"He really doesn't...care for me at all, Dr. Nugent. He'd never call me _Harry_ otherwise. He hates me."

**_Oh, please stop it with the melodrama, you foolish boy!_**

And he's playing with the cords on the jacket - the hoody - once more, and for the life of me, I'm trying to ascertain whether he's been treated with some sort of muggle medicine while here.

Dr. Nugent is still, formulating his next series of questioned assaults, and I feel like things should really be ushered along.

"I can inform you with great sincerity, Dr. Nugent...that I certainly do not..._hate_...Harry. We've had our own disputes about issues in the past, but events as of late have undoubtedly led me to reevaluate my own opinions on certain matters."

Which, given the horrific scowling little mass now glarring daggers at me from across the room, I'm sorely regretting.

"Oh admit it - that's a _lie_. You **hate** me. Part of you is probably all too _dissapointed _that I didn't do myself some real harm! Didn't do myself in!," and that shell of a frame, that husk of a body, is exhaling so rapidly...for a moment I'm worried about hyperventilation.

And what of Miss Granger? That girl is usually one we can all count on for incessant chatter, and here, today, when needed - she's unnaturally quiet.

I hear the doctor sigh, although I'm feeling slightly less than eager to offer my own opinion, given the look of Potter. The boy looks like he's going to explode, and part of me is wondering how he could become incensed so rapidly.

"Alright," the doctor interjects, "apparently Harry's reluctance to talk earlier wasn't strictly out of concern for whatever....topics might be covered today. Obviously _something_ deeper is at work here. Although...it is also my experience that young men in these situations, who have resorted to the means that have landed them in hospital in the first place...can become uncharacteristically upset over comparitively small issues, such as what we are seeing here, today, I think..."

**_That all was so deliciously...vague...doctor. Please continue. _**

"Today, after all, is essentially an _outpatient_ evaluation meeting. Professor Snape...from talking to you, and Professor Lupin, I have no doubt that Harry will have access to the necessary physical care and ongoing medical evaluations required for his continued improvement?"

It takes an inordinate amount of willpower to keep from rolling my eyes. "Of course, doctor."

"And of psychiatric, or...mental health opportunities? Something is lined up?"

Despite my at-times...lack of _patience_ with Potter, I cannot help but feel slightly self-conscious for him, at this moment. Surely tact is something sorely missing in muggle societies, and _surely_ that particular question could have been asked of me, and me alone, to spare the boy some shame.

I try to catch Potter's eyes, but he's staring at his lap, twining the cords between his fingers, looping the material around a digit and wrapping with false distraction. I have no doubt that he's all _too_ aware of whatever I will say next.

"Yes, we do have a person in mind, ready to discuss the issues that led Harry to this...._place_."

When I look back down at the boy, I can see that he's firmly holding the cord in its previous position, around his index finger, the blood stilling due to pressure, the top already turning an alarming shade of purple.

_"Stop that!," _I say tersely, trying not to hiss, but when Harry doesn't oblige, I find myself with no other option than to rise from my seat, and grasp the cords myself until I can extract his mangled finger from the self-imposed torture.

"If you cannot take care of _these_," I indicate to the toggle pulls, "I will take clothing shears and cut the cords out of this blasted garment - _don't think that I won't!" _

I look back up, unsettled, but aware of Dr. Nugent having asked me something additional in those passing seconds.

"I apologise, doctor. If you would be so _kind_ as to repeat your question, please. I was a little **_distracted_**...."

"Yes," he is eyeing Harry warily now, probably all too pleased, deep-down, to be ridding his staff of having to care for such an obviously troubled child, "regarding the therapeutic care, the _training _- I take it you've acquired an individual who is aware of, and highly schooled in treating boys with Harry's sorts of problems....?"

**_Where is this going, seriously? _**And just as I am about to dismissively wave away the question, Dr. Nugent asks yet another regrettably tactless question, this time alarming the child even further **_- _**for Potter now looks like a stunned thestral at the question, his eyes bulbous, his face contorted in upset.

"Sit _down_, boy. I AM sorry for these....distractions, doctor. Apparently...," and alarmingly the boy is actually....tugging on my sweater, like a much smaller child, his eyes trained on his grubby little green sneakers.

_"Yes?,"_ and this time it comes out as a hiss, no question about it, although the morning has been agonizingly slow enough without Potter's insane need to delay proceedings further. Although, given the tremulous state of the hands now still grasping my clothing, I do admit to feeling the slightest - the smallest - bit of compassion for such an overwrought child.

_"Can I use the washroom, sir?,"_ and his voice is filled with urgency, if not slight respect - although I know none of the need relates in any way to actually needing to use the facilities of a lavatory. Yet there is a shrillness about it I cannot deny, and Miss Granger is at his side not two moments later, as expected.

"Me too, Professor? I mean, can I leave with him? I also need to use the lavatory," her small hand already twined around Potter's, protectively.

I can't help but take delight in the slight flush that rises to her cheeks when I ask with mock incredulousness not a moment later, "You _too?_ So you've suddenly also found yourself in the position whereby you need to use the lavatory?"

Determined little sprite of a girl, of course, so I shouldn't have been surprised by the, "**_Yes_**, professor!" that was to follow.

"Sit back down, Miss Granger, if you'd please. Mr. Potter...you look like you will be ill. Doctor?," and I turn back to the man who is keeping this whole performance running. I can understand the children's need to hightail it out of the bloody place.

"Very well, Harry. Go use the washroom if need be. We will continue on, but I'd like for you to return shortly?," and the boy is gone before the question is even fully posed.

Good riddance to constant interruptions.

--------

Dr. Nugent is quiet for only a moment before continuing.

"Perhaps it's for the best...Harry's absence for this...discussion. I, of course, did wish to have him present. If not to speak up, then to understand that certain conditions must be settled upon and certain subjects discussed before he could be cleared to leave."

_'Get on with it please, you bloody excuse for a....' _

I do surprise myself with an exceptionally assuring, "But of course."

"As I was inquiring before, regarding...the type of therapist that has been settled upon for Harry. May I ask, would this be... a male or female therapist?"

I will myself to remain...impassive, outwardly.

"A _male _therapist. I can provide you with contact information, if needed, although I shouldn't truly see why that _is_ necessary. After all, Mr. Potter may be too young himself to sign for release, but he does have adults in a guardianship position, or those who could easily claim guardianship at the present time. Of of those individuals, may I say....there is a certain interest in solidifying other arrangements. One of those arrangements, as stated before, includes reinstatement at school."

I am growing bored by this tedium.

"Of course, Professor. Mind you, as a doctor, my first duty is to consider Harry's welfare..."

Done so tactfully well before, I am sure...

"And I am in no way denying release today. I simply do wish to finalize the necessary documents so that I can rest assured that I have fulfilled my role as responsible physician."

I can feel a migraine coming on. I really should have waited for Lupin to get better - to handle this little..._venture_.

"Yes, doctor. I....apologize for my....briskness. It's been an exceptionally long week...."

I can sense the impetuousness of the girl beside me then, as a small, not entirely concealed smile threatens to break through; it doesn't last long, however.

"So I can take it that Professor Lupin has informed you about the severity of the abuse which led to Harry's troubles?"

I blink, dully, if such a thing is possible. Miss Granger's smile, small one that it was, is now completely absent.

"Of course," I start, cautiously, "Miss Granger and myself...were both made aware of the past occurences that would have led to Harry's issues not only with eating, but with all forms of...," and something in me is coiling, something not unlike hate, and certainly none of it is directed towards Harry. **_Foolish boy_**....,"_self-abuse_. We have taken those issues into account when selecting a primary psychiatrist to monitor his ongoing care..."

That should have been sufficient, given Granger's extreme stillness, her intense concentration at reading all the names of the tomes lining the good doctors shelves, but it wasn't...

"Well, thank you, Professor Snape. That was, of course, my principle concern. Young boys Harry's age have an exceptionally difficult time discussing abuse in general, and certainly that particular form...and given the severity of what we know he endured, I felt it necessary to be certain that competent, relevant aid was being sought..."

I nod in agreement.

"And then there are also comparitively _many_ more therapists schooled in dealing with physical abuse, strictly. But sexual abuse adds an undeniable layer, a horrendous..._complexity_...to treatment. It's likely to be the primary cause underlying Harry's issues with eating, but also...the subject he most likely will avoid discussing before all else. Although I believe we can all agree....that this is understandable..."

If Granger was_ still _before, she's bloody well turned to stone now. The girl could give one of the petrified a run for their money. Given what's just been revealed, however....

"I was actually somewhat..._surprised_ by Harry's strength by confiding in you both about these issues. It's a positive sign, I feel. And given his sheer reluctance to discuss issues of rape, even from an objective standpoint, well...."

_"What?"_

I have a taste of sick in my mouth, and I'm starting to feel uncharacteristically sympathetic.

"When we need to...draw out....the boys, to discuss subjects we'd know they'd rather _bury_ than talk about, we usually have a group session dealing with some of the principle issues. Harry, as you may have guessed, is not the only boy here to have experienced the trauma of rape. Many of the other boys here have experienced similar abuse, if not to the same degree, then of the same kind. But Harry, I must say, was perhaps the most..._hesitant_ to provide any of his views on the subject... This, of course, coupled with his reticence in session, had led me to be, perhaps, overly cautious of what I was thinking was perhaps a...premature dismissal. I can see now I was much too worried...and that he's in capable hands..."

I feel an undeniable unease, but I must do an acceptable job of keeping my features sufficiently...placid, for Dr. Nugent carries on as if I haven't been shocked to my core.

At that thought I realize... the foolish boy still hasn't returned.

-------------------


	16. Stripped Down to the Bone

Chapter 16 -

**_Stripped Down to the Bone_**

**_----_**

**A/N: **notes and messages to some of you guys who reviewed, with questions - are at the end of this chapter. :)

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_Hermione's POV_

------

OK.

Ok.

_'Harry gets to leave now...'_

It's going to be alright.

_(*whether he is ready to leave or not....*)_

**_Not. Not ready. Why can't they see that?_**

_'**But** it means you can...help him. You **can** help him. You can be there for him. Everyday. **Every meal**. ' _

I feel like I'm going to be ill. I feel like I have the stomach flu, almost. I feel jittery and my heart is racing, and it feels like it might explode any second.

_'You couldn't be there for him before, like this...not before.' _

I hope I'm not really going to be sick. I don't think so, but...

_'Imagine how HARRY feels... all the time! Don't be a baby. Be strong.' _

I know he has to be suffering. I know he has to be hiding a lot of his pain.

_'You can be the best friend you know how to be, now...'_

Now, on top of everything else, we are supposed to side-apparate back?

Certainly Harry has too much stuff for side-apparition. Snape must realize that!

And Harry's too fragile. He gets sick too easily. He throws up too easily.

Snape will surely not risk it. He will have to choose another way back.

I wonder if he'll be open-minded to a suggestion of passenger train.

_'It's Harry's favorite form of transportation.'_

* * *

I can't help but look up at Professor Snape. I think... I _think _he called my name.

"_Miss Granger?...Hermione," _Professor Snape calls my name yet again, although it's in a less growly voice than is typical.

_'I guess he's shocked too...'_

I must look pretty shaken.

"I feel like my heart's stopping, or going too fast, or _something_...," I whisper, almost dazedly - because I'm talking to Professor **Severus Snape**, not Professor _**Remus Lupin**_. But my mouth seems to be working of its own accord, and the words are out before I'm fully aware that I'm even speaking.

_'Shut up, stupid! He doesn't **care**...'_

But he _might_, I realize - he just might, because I see his features change then, just slightly. They look softer. Not soft, certainly not soft, but for a moment an edge seems to be lost, an anger seems to dissipate.

But then the mask is back.

Quickly.

"I understand," he says, his features drawn tight once more.

Dr. Nugent has left us to locate Harry - who is still, obviously, not back. An inconspicuous glance at my watch informs me that's he's been absent for nearly 25 minutes.

Our teacher does **not** look amused.

I take a chance, a risk. I can blame it on shock, later, if need be.

"Did you....know, Sir? _All_ of it?"

A beat, and then a very harsh, "Of course not! How would **_I _**know something like that?"

He gives me a penetrating look then... studious.

"Sir?"

"Not a word of _this_...not a _word_...to anyone, certainly not to," I can tell he's about to say 'Mr. Potter', but at the last moment he recovers, and tries for uncharacteristic civility.

"...Harry... You are not to bring this up with him, certainly not now. Am I clear?," he supplies edgily.

I know what he's refering to when he states _"not a word,"_ and I feel something squirm in my bowels.

My heart stops racing just a little at his words, because I know that he's not going to use this new found information on my friend. He's not going to use this information... _against _my friend, which, in the back of my mind was of concern.

Looking up at our teacher, I can see how _perturbed _he is, how lost in thought; he doesn't look as a cat would if toying with a mouse.

Because when you compare him to Harry's uncle, he's no...

**_'He's no monster.' _**

Instead he looks disturbed. Only slightly so, and you have to study him closely. Very closely. Otherwise you might just mistake his look of nausea for headache pain, perhaps. For Professor Snape, however, that says a lot.

Harry's still not back, and I feel immediately...protective. Possessive, almost.

_'Maternal? You just want to hug him and make sure he's warm and fed and everything's okay...'_

**No. **

_**Protective. **_

_Yes_, I just want to hold him, sure I do. I mean, Harry's like my brother, and very strong, inside, I know it.

Now, of course, seeing him look so...anxious, so fearful... Seeing him race out of this room in near-panic, I can't help but feel as if he's like a little brother, almost. So small, so thin, so scared.

I feel like he needs my protection, if only because no one else has ever protected him before.

Not really.

Not when it _counted._

* * *

After a moment, Snape rises and walks to the door.

"Please...watch Mr. Potter's things, Miss Granger," he says somewhat briskly, while pulling in Harry's sports bag that Ron and I picked up for him at the sports center, and the little white cyclamen plant that I gave to him early on in his stay.

Ridiculously enough, a small part of me notes how well Harry's tended to it, and how lush the leaves have become, how healthy the flowers look...

_'Oh Harry... Why couldn't you do this for **yourself**? Feed yourself? Take care of yourself?'_

I'll take it as a portent of sorts. A good omen. I must have hope that he'll recover from this, that everything will be good again.

"Sir? Do you think...?," I'm not sure if he heard me at all so I stall, somewhat.

_Which is apparently the wrong thing to do..._

"Are you intending on finishing that sentence sometime _today,_ Miss Granger?"

_'Just when you thought the man had a bit of a heart, he has to turn around and be a git...'_

I start again.

"Do you think, Sir....that Harry's ready to leave? Don't you think, maybe - I don't know - that it's too _soon_?"

Snape's eyes are studying me with a strange degree of intensity. Eyes of calculating stone. Gray, unblinking. I fight an urge to move in my chair.

"You_ "don't know?",_" he qualifies with a slight sneer, "Let me clarify something here, if I may: am I to take it that you'd _prefer _for Mr. Potter to stay in this clinic?"

He spits out the last word like it's repugnant medicine, and I shake my head, sensing anger coming off of him, in waves.

_'Just as before...when I felt fear, coming from Harry.'_

"No sir. Of **_course_** I don't want him to be in this _position_...I'm just worried that he's still quite..."

_'Now how do you want to phrase this so that you don't make your best friend out to be a complete whack-job?'_

"I just think that he's still very....**_unwell_**?"

Snape is trying not to roll his eyes at my words, that much I can tell, and he rises once more - speaking before shutting the door entirely.

"Of course he's _unwell_, you foolish girl!"

Although his last words are spoken so softly that I can barely make them out.

"He's _terribly _sick."

* * *

I must have been a lot more fatigued than I was aware of earlier, because here I am -- nearly dozing off in some doctor's office, who I don't even know....

Luckily, I'm not fighting with myself over the issue of crying. Intellectually, I'm aware that this is probably due to shock, and that the tears will probably come later on, when I'm alone.

_'After I have time to digest everything that's happened....everything I've heard.' _

Right now, despite my tiredness, I just want to get out of this office, and find my friend.

_'Snape told you to stay. You know he'd flip if you went wandering off to find Harry...'_

It's actually quite a relief when a young woman, of maybe 27 or so, raps lightly on the door and slowly nudges me back to full alertness.

"Sorry, sweetie..."

_'Sweetie?'_

"Are you_..."Mione?"," _she tests the name carefully, as if she may have misheard it originally.

I nod, and groggily clear my eyes.

"Yes, I am," and I feel a bit better at that, knowing only Harry or Ron would ever call me 'Mione.

_'And usually, it's just Harry...'_

"You've found him?," I ask, already knowing the answer to my question, in part.

"Harry? Yeah, poor pup was totally tuckered out. Truth be told, I don't think he got a lot of sleep last night, honey. Probably a little too excited to leave, yeah?"

"Where did you find him?," I ask cautiously.

The young nurse - Harry's nurse (_Katie?_) - laughs a little at that, and I immediately relax.

"One of our other residents found him asleep in the boy's shower room, actually. There are seperate stalls, and I guess he curled up beneath the spray. There are timers - up to thirty minutes - and like I said, poor kid was wrecked."

I frown at the information. None of this makes sense.

"But..._Katie_?," and she nods in affirmation, "Katie...._Harry and Dr. Nugent and our Professor_...we were _all _having a meeting. A _meeting_. All of us. Harry, included," I reiterate, as if she may not have understood me the first time, "and he asked to leave, but only for...you know...a _moment_. Why would he go get a _shower_? That doesn't make sense..."

Katie sort of chuckles at that, and I'm starting to think that hardly anything phases this woman.

**_'Ron would like her...'_**

"Well, Dr. Nugent - and I _didn't say this_, alright?," her voice has dropped to an amused whisper while I nod my head, "Dr. Nugent has his own ideas about meetings, and what they should entail; he was probably...pushing for something that Harry didn't really want to discuss. And that's important - those wishes. They shouldn't have been disregarded. You can't really expect the poor guy to keep up his end of the deal, if _Dr. Nugent _didn't..."

Her smile makes me feel a little more at ease, especially when you factor in the fact that Harry must have told her much more than he'd ever revealed to his therapist.

Just on that alone, I find myself trusting Katie.

She proffers a hand to me then, carefully pulling me to my feet while I hobble around for a moment in an effort to work out the pins and needles in my left leg.

I mutter a yawned thanks, only for her to shake her head knowingly.

"So I take it Harry's not the only zonked one around here, huh?"

_'Zonked?'_

I retrieve the sports bag now, and the plant, remembering quickly that Harry made off with his _own_ backpack.

"Oh, ummm...just one more question...?"

For a moment I'm tempted to think that Katie's actually a witch.

Or maybe just a mind reader.

"He's with the head nurse, hon," she starts, jumping the gun. "They're just refilling his ulcer medication..."

_'Ulcer medication?'_

"Anyway, Professor Snape asked me to ask _you_ to wait out in the main lobby hall for them. They'll probably be all wrapped up soon at any rate... Come on, honey - I'll show you where it is."

---------------

I drop Harry's heavy bag onto the plush red seat of the lobby waiting room, then use the rest room and wash up. Looking up in the small bathroom mirror, I can see how tired I look, how drained. My mind then helpfully supplies me with several images of Harry - distraught, earlier, with his glasses off, swiping at his red rimmed eyes.

_'Looking like he wanted to cry... begging to leave....'_

All at once I find myself pushing down a terrible sadness, and a strong urge to cry.

_'Not now, not now! Be strong for him!'_

If I get upset, _he'll_ get upset for me. I can't be that selfish. I'm not the one suffering. I'm just witnessing suffering.

Looking back at my reflection, I force something to solidify in my gut. I call on my inner strength, and I force the churning nausea to cease, the dread and fear to die out. I force the horrible sense of unease to go away, just for now - knowing it'll probably hit me even harder, later.

I push back a few lingering tears, and try to think about what I need to do now to be a good friend.

_'If he sees you cry, if he sees you stressed, he's going to be ashamed, he's going to feel guilty.... So stop it!'_

When I get back to the lobby, I'm composed, but I find that the effort needed to do so is tapping my general energies.

Wandering over to the muggle snack bar - a collection of drink machines and vending machines located near the waiting chairs - I select a _MAJOR! MOCCA! DE-LITE!_ option from the scrawny little brown and orange drink machine for 50p. The machine makes a gurgling sound as I deposit the coins, and then spits out a 12 ounce paper coffee cup with a sketching of a cappuccino mug on the side in an equally ugly orange. A rackety banging sound is heard emanating from the machine then, and two seconds later frothy brown premixed mocca-coffee streams into the cup.

I take the drink gratefully once the little mechanical plastic door slides open and the red "being served" light flashes off, indicating I can take the beverage.

After a few sips I can already feel the caffeine working its way through my system.

_'I should stock up on muggle coffee for exam time!'_

It's not a drink offered to students at Hogwarts, but I feel a temptation to sneak some in, contra-band.

_'Imagine how much more studying you could get in, if you were able to down one caffeinated beverage after another!'_

I know it's simple anxiety over not knowing what to do that's the cause of this new train of thought. Not knowing what else to think about to keep from bawling, I get up and study the machines some more, all the while remaining aware of Harry's bags, keeping an eye on them, just in case someone else would care to swipe them.

Looking at the candy assortments in one of the vending machines I decide to grab, somewhat impulsively, some other things: a Curly Wurly bar for Ron (who somehow decided on his last trip that he'd _"Always loved Curly Wurly's!") _and a Lions bar for Harry - just to keep things normal seeming.

_'He's not going to eat it, Hermione....'_

The lion cartoon, of course, is an obvious reference to Gryffindor, and such sentimental pride for our house will surely not go unnoticed by Snape, which in turn will not go unnoticed by Harry.

_'If it amuses him, that should be all that matters...'_

After a few more selections, I deposit an additional £3 even, and then laugh at the roaring lion cartoon on the chocolate bar, certain that doing my best to reduce Harry's anxiety - his apprehension - is the best thing I can do right now.

Not a moment too soon, Snape rounds the corner, followed by an almost reserved Harry, hair semi-dry, hoody slightly damp. And then, at that moment, whatever deep grief I feel in my heart, is covered once more.

_'We have to let Harry come to **us**.' _

We can't just force this out of him. He's had too much....forced from him...

I shake the thought immediately, because I know it'll make me atrociously sad, and I won't be able to cover my saddness once it hits full force.

Swallowing the last of my coffee, I reach out to give Harry a tentative hug, and I feel him tense, uncertain.

Interestingly enough, he's still not wearing his glasses, but is holding them in one hand. Given the thinness, the fatigue settling in blue-black markings under his eyes, his hair freshly combed and wet - and now lacking his glasses - he looks almost like a different person.

And impossibly young.

"You little punk," I smack him softly on the head, much to Snape's scowling shock, "you little _punk!_ You took off and I actually fell asleep in Dr. Nugent's office!"

That does it, though. That breaks the ice, for Harry looks up at me then, thinking that things are probably far more calm in my heart, if I'm so willing to joke with him.

_'You're misleading him, Granger. He's going to think that you** don't know**. He's going to think that he can keep the truth hidden...'_

But he seems a lot calmer then, and the obvious relief on his face makes me feel a little better for my deception.

"Is that why you have a...?," and he brings my hand up very gingerly, carefully, towards his face to read the label on the paper cup.

I can sense his concern in not sloshing the hot coffee inside, "that's why you have a..."Major Mocca De-lite"?"

"Yes, _totally_. Plus a Curly Wurly for Ron, and something for you too, to take with your pills....," I motion to Harry's little brown vialed container filled with what look like microscropic yellow pills - for an ulcer, apparently - before I foist off the Lion's bar, biting back a smile.

Harry turns it around in his hands, confused for a moment, then stiffles a laugh, before mouthing out,_ "Lion's Bar." _

I reach forward and pull him into a proper hug for once, and this time he_ doesn't _tense, which makes me feel good.

"I missed you so much. You have _no idea _how much."

He flinches then, I can feel it - and I can't help but think how guarded he is, how filled with _guilt_. To confirm my thoughts, he mumbles an _"I'm sorry, Hermione,"_ and I know I can't leave it at that.

At the same time, I don't know what to say that won't sound _forced_, that won't sound _awkward_.

"Just promise me one thing, Harry," and he looks up a little nervously at that, as if expecting to be smacked, "Don't let me fall asleep in some random doctor's office again, okay? That's _it. _That's all you've got to do for the rest of time...," and I let out a bit of a _hrumpf _ in effort as I reshoulder Harry's sports bag. I clearly have no upper body strength, and he comes around to grab the side handle not a moment later, putting his glasses back on before he does so.

"Oh, Professor, I got these for you too-," I say evenly, no trace of a smile on my face, totally keeping up appearances. I hold the last bag of candy out to the dour man, who takes it with some suspicion, as Harry reads sideways, outloud: "**_Rowntree's 'Jelly Tots'!_** - _"Nothing beats biting a Tot!"_"

Inching our way back to the elevator with the oversized bag - and with the obvious purpose of escape in mind - we both keep our eyes trained on the floor, lest we break into laugher. If we look at each other, we're going to lose it.

Before I load the car, however, I do catch our Professor's eyes, and am somewhat encouraged when he gives the briefest nod of his head.

We might have a lot to face - soon, but today - today _can_ be good, and studying Harry in all his pallor and thinness, I know that today is all we ever have.

We'll face tomorrow...

_tomorrow_.

----------------

**_Responses:_**

**Wulfweard, Bookslug, Luzith, snapes wife to be, Sofie, B00kw0rm92, Ameths, The Ivory Raven, albus, Bloodgalore, Simply Obscure, Alo Amicus, slightlysickpsycho** --- thanks guys for your reviews/ comments and general support! :)

**Lord Dingsda** - I'm doing, comparatively, much better. It's amazing how long it takes to get back to 'normal.' Actually, I still wouldn't say, in all honesty, that my relationship with food is _normal_. But it's better. A lot better. It will do. Slow and steady, that's what I try to keep in mind. :) Thank you for reviewing.

**WishIWasaWish** - no, I highly doubt that I'm your friend :) *smiles* But you're right...deep down, the calming aspects that keep a lot of people firmly entrenched in a world of self-injury, or obvious disordered eating, is pretty universal for those susceptible. A lot of doctors have written books and papers detailing the biochemical changes that can occur during fasting that can make the experience somewhat addictive, or the endorphin release that can make self-injury calming to certain people. It's why both 'habits' are hard to break.

No one is attracted to misery, I don't think. If someone does something that appears backwards, even entirely self-destructive, there IS a reason for it...it just probably is not very understandable to most... Anyway, I wish your friend the very best. And you, too. Thanks for commenting.

**ikot-ikot** - no worries. I have no plans on making this a Harmony (H/Hr) story, or a Severitus. Even in stories, other stories, where there is a Severitus aspect, I appreciate when the advancement to that stage is slower, and I appreciate when Snape still retains a bit of his snarkiness. The very 'WARMEST' he would ever be to Harry, I suspect... is how he's portrayed as being around Draco, at times. Anything more than that would probably, in the world of canon, never happen.

While I will read both Harmony and Severitus flicks myself, I have no plans making this story either ;) So no worries.

**Purplewabbit** -LOL I don't understand Snape stories where he magically turns into a "bizarro 80's tv show perfect parent" either. In fact, because my natural inclination is to be supportive of people in pain, I sometimes go back over my writing, when it features Snape, and modify anything that seems a little too warm, or supportive. Harry could be dying of leukemia, and I don't think Snape would ever be _nice_ to him, but at the same time, I **do** think a lot of his animosity stems from past grudges. Certainly he is not quite an arse to his Slytherins. And I think if something even remotely similar to what has happened in this story, had befallen Harry in canon, he'd be _tamer_.

Physically, since Harry's overall look has been altered quite drastically, he's also not going to summon up the same images/ connections to his father. And being so depressive/ reserved etc. would also mean he wouldn't come across as being anything like James, in terms of mannerisms, either. I do think such changes would lead to a more....unsettled Snape, one who would be just a teensy bit more civil to Harry. But still not at all reminscient of a bizarro 80's tv parent, no. ;)

**Roy Fan 33** - you know what? In the back of my mind, I MUST have been thinking of _Homeward Bound._ =)


	17. No One Could Know

Chapter 17 -

**No One Could Know**

Snape's POV

* * *

Miss Granger's eyes meet mine at the last moment. Apprehensive, really. And then the blasted muggle elevator doors close, the girl still staring at me before I catch the barest nod of her head in acknowledgement.

_'Quite the actress, really.' _

Because I know how revolted she had been to hear the truth, earlier, in the doctors office. Blurted out by that incompetent man, as if that wasn't a particularly distasteful event...

_One the boy most certainly wouldn't want advertised in such a fashion. _

I take a moment to process what has just happened, the surreal nature of the morning, and the fact that I taste bile in my throat for a boy I've never cared for...

...the **fact **that I can't summon myself to feel aggravated with Potter, who has just prolonged this... chore... of chaffeur by more than an extra hour...

Nor can I generate the familiar feeling of animosity....

It's all a little unnerving.

_'Of course - to go from seeing the boy as spoiled, arrogant, mollycoddled...to starved to the bone by his own hand, anemic-pale, and vomiting up blood in a muggle restroom...'_

Nor can I help feeling rather unqualified to deal with psychiatric needs of this magnitude; it's obvious Potter has some significant issues.

What had been said earlier, on my previous visit to this clinic - the day the boy had had a muggle feeding tube dislodged from his body?

_"Harry's in the grips of genuine mental illness, Professor Snape. Make no mistake about the severity of his condition."_

At the time, I had wanted to scoff at the melodrama and respond with the apt rebuttal detailing Potter's narcissim and childishness.

Obviously the 'treatment' of the last few months has yielded few positive results, and I'm fairly certain that if I were to broach the topic with the headmaster, or Potter's beloved Lupin...they'd have to agree with me: secret purging is less bothersome than public purging without any concern as to whom is witnessing the event.

And if I could tell myself that the vomiting was involuntary, then that might be permissible. The stomach of one denied solid food would naturally shrink, and anxiety could cause retching. But I also know damn well that today's vomiting was deliberate - having taken in the scene of the disturbed child as he forcibly induced gagging with his fingers.

No, I had never been more shocked by the actions of a student, and certainly never more shocked by Potter himself.

Unwilling, perhaps, to think any more about the subject I stare down at the small, hediously coloured package that had been foisted off on me earlier. It's an atrocious multi-neon display of mugglishness, if I ever saw such a thing. Ridiculously formed candy shaped children in yellow, red and lime green dot the exterior wrapping and a careful read provides: _"For Sour-Lovers Only! Now even MORE sour!"_

**_'Impertinent little chit...'_**

Shoving the surreal 'gift' down into the deep pockets of the muggle jacket I've been forced to don, I pull out a written form detailing the specifics as to what constitutes Potter's **"Outpatient Guidelines and Goals."** Quickly scanning the paper I note that meal times are to be strictly enforced, with _"No more than three hours between consumpion of morning and afternoon snacks and meals,"_ and _"mid-day meals not being taken in later than 1 pm," _followed by the suggestion that the _"patient be closely monitored for up to an hour after ingestion of snacks and meals until sufficient weight gain has been achieved, and psychological assessment indicates purging risk is minimal."_

To my credit, I've had more than a slight shift in awareness, I'll admit to as much.

_*He didn't even try to stop his retching! Not even when pulled out of the spray... Not even when he was bringing up blood...*_

That **_had_ **been a rather disturbing event to witness. The blood, apparently, caused by a rather large gastric ulcer, although the boy had connivingly used that as his excuse for vomiting in the first place...

As a second elevator door pings open, alerting my attention, my mind fumbles about with words like "possession" and "compulsion." What else could explain such utterly bizare behavior?

Once I've loaded the elevator with Potter's remaining duffel bag, and the the old contraption start to close, I catch an advertisement on the backside of the doors: **"Come and visit our NEW Cafeteria now located on the ground floor, near the gift shop! Construction complete as of December 20th!"** -- I realize then that Potter is already an hour over the recommended enforcement of a 1 pm 'mid-day' meal.

* * *

When I finally reach the ground floor, I feel my mood immediately darken. Certainly two teenagers wouldn't simply leave the hospital grounds - just like that?

Not after the care taken to ward certain floors and regions _specifically_ for Potter's damnable protection!

Even if the boy was too out of sorts to take _that_ into his thick skull, which wouldn't surprise me at all given his earlier actions in the shower and progressive displays of disturbance, well, certainly his _prodigious _cohort could have ascertained as much....

My ire spreading quickly, I make careful point not to appear outwardly hostile and I aim for forced composure before moving over to a section of the room whereby a sign dangles, reading: "How may I help you?" in ridiculous curlique penmanship.

"Madame," I ask as politely as possible of a morbidly obese woman dressed in a guard's uniform, "may I inquire as to whether you've recently seen two teenagers...scamper off somewhere near this entrance?"

_'This is unbelievable! This is...'_

"Boy 'n girl? The boy, erhm, real _skinny like_?," the woman asks in a saliva chortled way, eyes lighting up as if she's engaging in some sort of gossip session, and I feel the corners of my mouth draw in, disgusted.

"Yes," I bite out, motioning for the daft woman to continue, which she does, pointing obliquely towards some little gift shop, and Merlin help me, I do my best not to whip into the store and shake the life out of both of them, I really do!

And then...there they are: both looking so out of place, even in muggle attire. Potter looking so obviously..._rejected_...from the clinic that my head swims with the enormity of the task that lies ahead. I do not envy _anyone_ granted the task of trying to deal with Potter normally, and **_now_**...

_'Now...to get this self-destructive child back to health?' _

The boy as of present has removed his 'hoody' and is apparently attempting to fix a catch in the zipper, the material drawn - stuck. Granger does not witness this show of skeletalism, for all he wears under the oversized garment is a clinging white undershirt which broadcasts both ribs and spine. The girl instead is leafing through some sort of science magazine, completely missing the spectacle before all.

_'What progress could possibly have been made, here? The boy looks like a breeze would knock him down!'_

I, indeed, get to take in the unnatural sight: arms lacking normal curvature of flesh, of padding. Bone-thin arms, the veins starkly prominent - the flesh a sickly pallor of the terribly anemic, the visible flesh of Harry's body cast in a faint blue, as one would expect had the child nearly frozen to death.

And he's removed his glasses, those glasses which are so typically ubiquitous, that the face faintly resembles the same child. In fact, he looks so _unlike _his cocky father that I marvel at the change brought about by weight loss alone. Additionally, of course, he resembles his mother all the more given that his eyes are the one true feature which haven't changed - although they are no doubt made stranger by finding residence in such a terribly underweight home of a body.

Evenso, even reformed into this new creature who fails to incite my anger, the whole of him appears grotesque and I feel something catch in my stomach just watching the boy meandering about. His wastedness hits home then as he bends over to retrieve a dropped package from the candy aisle, whilst providing a view of a razor sharp vertebral form beneath the well worn t-shirt.

_'To think that even more extreme sickness had been hidden by baggy clothing and glamour charms before...'_

"Miss Granger," I bark, not caring to cover up my anger as I finally resolve myself to the task at hand, "what - _pray tell _- are you two doing racing off to this undecided locale? This was **_not _**the meeting place and I was not _but a moment _behind you both..."

The girl at least has the grace to flush at that, her hand bringing up a magazine in explaination, as if she's a puppet whose strings have been tugged; and then, recognizing his relative state of undress, still, Potter is scrambling with his jacket. His friend turns to him as if prompting for explaination and that's when I see it - her horror - that recognition on her face - quickly stiffled. But all the same unmistakable as the last bit of those stick-arms finally pull into the safety of an oversized cotton cocoon. The gasp doesn't go unnoticed by Potter either, who stares downwards then, mumbling something about fares, transfers.

"What was that?," I query, my vexation rapidly dissipating into general fatigue.

"I knew you'd want to leave as soon as possible. I thought we'd get our trolley tickets right away," and he's speaking in a voice so soft I have to strain to hear him, though I do, _"I'm sorry," _he adds deliberately, rapidly, almost tripping on the _sorry_, his voice taking on a note of shrillness.

I wave off his "sorry," the word, to me, feeling unfamiliar and strange. Given that it's being spoken by _Potter _to me, it feels all the more unnatural.

"What makes you think we are taking a trolley anywhere?," I say shortly, covering up my fatigue with irritation.

"I still get dizzy, sir. I don't think I can...," and his voice catches then, as if catching his mistake - his ease to discuss magical modes of transportation in a muggle establishment.

Granger is still uncharacteristically silent.

I had, in fact, thought of magical means to transport us within a public floo-network region, although the suggestion of muggle trolley may actually be a safer alternative. The likelihood of information being leaked to magical press is far less likely if we chose muggle means for the bulk of the transport. And Grimauld Place still has a workable floo connection, which could connect us to Hogwarts. The suggestion _is _sound.

"Have you purchased the tickets yet, Miss Granger?," and she startles at my question. The way both of them are acting today, one would be inclined to think that both should have been sorted into Hufflepuff.

"No," and her eyes scan the board for pick up locations and estimated departure times. "Should I get three 2:35 tickets, Professor?"

Her voice is still meek, and I can't help but wonder if she's still ashamed for running off like a two year old.

"That will be a little early. We have, " and I pause for a moment, in thought, "other matters to attend to first." I scan the muggle electronic readout before continuing, "three 4:15 tickets from Levine Street South should be sufficient."

She looks perplexed at that, but does not argue and heads back to the line of muggles, her underweight partner in crime behind her, arms full of...

"_What _are you purchasing, Mr. Potter?," I query, my voice sounding harsher than even I had intended.

The boys arms are loaded up with an assortment of muggle magazines and muggle candy, and given his sheer reluctance to consume solid foods, I am more than a little confused. What purpose is there to stock up on candy that one very likely _won't_ be eating?

"He likes those, sir," Granger says tentatively, softly, as if Potter may hear her, hear the declaration, and suddenly decide that he _doesn't like_...my eyes scan the plastic packages..._Swedish Berries_ or _Fuzzy Peaches_. Her eyes meet mine again, and beg me not to deny the request - the look on her face all but pleading, _'if he'll eat it willingly, why do you protest?'_

The eagerness with which Potter is surveying the sweets however.... ( _those round, aching eyes scanning ten, fifteen packages of garbage food_)....something's not right....

A horrid thought comes to mind then, and I try to push it away as ridiculous, but the scenario I am imagining is too serious to ignore. At the same time, I do not wish to get into an arguement with two Gryffindors in the middle of a muggle gift store.

"Very well," and I put aside my reservations, for now.

* * *

It seems to take an inordinate amount of time for the line to dwindle down, but finally Granger and Potter shuffle out from the crowded shop, Potter swinging an overloaded plastic bag brimming with candy, and Granger pocketing trolley tickets and shouldering her friends overnight bag.

"Oh, no, let me take it, please," I hear him mutter, the look on his face determined, shame quickly evaporating into certainty, brooking no refusal.

_'Interesting...'_

He seemingly has not been focused on the actions of either myself, nor Miss Granger, all morning. In fact, his sudden awareness seems akin to the emergence from a drug induced state.

I fret about in my pockets for the slip of paper that showcases the medications and dosages that have been prescribed for the brat-who-lived in the last two months; given the child's derealization episodes, I feel a strong need to look over what's recorded.

_'You'll have to check that later....'_

Damn muggles have probably been overdosing the boy, who weighs little more than a pixie, now. I wouldn't be surprised, given the incompetency witnessed earlier today.

"You shouldn't have to carry my stuff, 'Mione. But, you know...thank you very much for...," and the voice trails off embarassedly with a big intake of air.

And I may be standing, impatiently, several strides ahead of the two, but that doesn't mean I am deaf to their conversations. The usage of the nickname, the politeness, the hesitancy to meet the eyes of a rather close friend over a relatively small matter...it all throws me somewhat for a loop. I see the boy take the bag then, resolute, despite dampened protests from Granger. The strain on his face is evident.

"Harry, don't be _silly_. I don't mind carrying the bag! I came to help."

The boy looks shamed at that, his cheeks pink from his discomfort, or the weight of the carry-on, I cannot tell. He shuffles forward wordlessly, leaving Granger with the bag of candy, a silent exchange. When he comes to stall near where I now stand, he almost bumps into me - having misjudged my location. His eyes flash upwards in surprise then, not meeting mine, not quite meeting or _seeing_ anything...

...his glasses still stashed in his jacket.

"I highly doubt you were provided glasses for show, Mr. Potter."

When he makes no move to put them back on his impertinent little face, I try again.

"You have best to wear them, so you don't stagger about like a drunkard into people."

"M'sorry," he mutters, although he still makes no effort to retrieve the blasted article. I am growing frustrated.

"I do not wish to deal with you tripping in front of traffic or falling down stairs and _breaking _anything, so put them on, " I hiss; _'breaking anything'_ a reference to his recently healed wrist fracture obtained in a skirmish with another boy on his ward, something Granger knows not of... Given Potter's grasping for the glasses, now, something he obviously doesn't want shared, either.

He looks up at me expectedly then, confused, only now coming to see where we've arrived as I hold the doors open for him and Granger both.

* * *

The girl is trying to encourage him, that much is obvious.

"Oooh...they have Crème brûlée, Harry! I'm getting that!," and I fight an urge to roll my eyes as Granger pulls out a little plastic wrapped container of muggle-made pudding, and stashes it on her cafeteria tray, next to her iced-tea.

So much for giftedness equalling practicality.

"Crème brûlée is a _dessert_, Miss Granger. While I have little objection to either you or Mr. Potter selecting a dessert _after _lunch, let's not have sweets replace actual sustenance, thank you."

She carries on as if she hasn't heard me, quite absorbed by the task of getting her friend to eat something of value.

"Fish and chips, Har'? I always used to _love_ fish and chips - with lemon and tartar sauce and malted vinegar?," she asks again, the rambling excusable given that she's trying to get a response out the unresponsive boy. In fact, nothing she says seems to have any impact on the bone-pile whose face is now anxiously scanning the menu on the overhead board, eyes haunted, as if he's been asked to select a poison to down: _*hemlock or arsenic, Har'? I used to looove hemlock with lemon and tartar sauce...*_

The spectacle more than a little pathetic, I turn away to focus on my own lunch, finally selecting a bowl of clam chowder, and then requesting two buttermilk biscuits and some cooked collard greens from the cafeteria chef - a stout woman behind the little glass partition highlighting the offerings of the day.

"That all, sir?," she asks in a chirrup, the accent something distant. Liverpool, perhaps.

"Mmm, mushroom gravy, if you have it please," I request, and then add at last moment, "and a small coffee, madame."

A small cup of dark roast coffee is served into a floral white cup, hospital-generic, then gently placed on my tray alongside two creamers and gravy in a little dish, as I proffer the requested amount of muggle money for the meal. I make my way over to a small table for four, taking in the horrid lavendar walls and mock-floral surroundings.

_'Recently refurbished?'_

Of course, some may think it's....pretty.

I shudder to think how rottingly garrish the place looked before...

Settling down into the most distant chair to alott the opposite seats for Granger and Potter, who no doubt will want to sit together, I slowly prepare my cofee and wait.

And wait.

Apparently, selecting a lunch is a herculean task for the boy, because a moment later Granger rushes over in explaination, sloshing a bit of her iced tea.

I survey the tray in front of me.

"This is yours?," and I restrain a growl at what I see. House salad without dressing, a small iced tea and small serving of crème brûlée -- the discrepancy between what most teenage girls eat, and what Potter's been _assigned_ to eat, very obvious. Furthermore, I know Miss Granger and her own peckish appetite will not make eating a meal of the proscribed caloric amount..._easy_...for the boy.

"He's still...deciding," she says timidly.

"He will also not likely eat _more than you _without some discomfort, irregardless of what he finally chooses. Is your appetite so small that you cannot choose something a little more substantial, at least for today?," I feel myself sigh.

"Uh, chips, then? I'll go get some chips...," and she pushes back her chair at that, rushing back to the line, where, squinting, I can see a mop of dark brown hair and pinched green eyes continue to survey the menu, as if something may appeal, suddenly, if he keeps...._searching, searching_.

* * *

At long last, the boy arrives, followed by Granger and a paper lined plastic basket of chips.

_'Yes, Miss Granger, choose chips -- choose **chips**, instead of something that will do him some good...'_

I don't know why my thoughts are dwindling on what the bratling chooses to consume, anyway. It's my duty to make sure he eats the requisite caloric amount right now, nothing more, so I quickly assess his choices.

I am not amused with the result.

A bowl of watery vegetable soup, a bare house salad, mostly lettuce with a few carrot strands and an errant cherry tomato here and there, and finally, a mug of chamomile tea, also bare. Not even a pot of the dessert Granger had selected. If he eats everything, he might take in 150 calories. His meals are not supposed to be less than 650 right now.

"Potter," I grind out, "where is your _lunch_?"

He gives me a squinty confused look, and waves his hand over his tray.

"I took what Hermione took, sir," he says softly.

_*Not exactly* _

Indeed, most of Miss Granger's calories currently come from dessert and sugary beverages, but even these items are missing from the tray before me, _no doubt_ a coincidence.

At my look, the protests begin.

"I have hot tea, Hermione took cold tea, we both have salads, and I opted for soup, not dessert! Soup is healthier than dessert anyway!," he tries again, his voice a little louder this time, and I can see then that he has pinched in his cheek, and is chomping down on the flesh as if to regulate his emotions, his inappropriate anger.

But the girl looks like she's going to point out the error in his thinking then - his obvious focus on selecting exceptionally low-caloric items. I meet her eyes and give a subtle shake of my head.

_'Not here.'_

_Not here, in this place_, it communicates. I'm **not** putting up with teenage tantruming today.

"Very well. If that's what you wish to consume, then you'll have to supplement the missing calories with the beverages your doctor proscribed for times such as these," I say quietly, not wanting to provoke the boy into an out-and-out battle. I place two cans of a product called "Ensure - High Calorie" in front of him, one in chocolate, one in strawberry. The child scowls at me for several moments before uttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like an insult, before he dumps the contents from the two cans into a large opaque water glass.

"It's better that way - to have them mixed," he scowls at me me, as if daring my refutation.

I give a 'very well' motion with my hand, expecting that to be the last of it.

"Hmm...what's that?," I say mildly, finishing the last bit of chowder before taking to buttering the scones.

"_Nothing_," he says bitterly, stirring his spoon about the bowl, hesitating, the spoon traversing the bowl one, two, three times. The cup of Ensure sits idly by, which is fine so long as he does drink the blasted beverage before we leave.

Lack of enforcement now will set the stage for plea barganing later, which is intolerable.

_'Careful progression...doesn't equate to actually liking the brat, you realize...'_

More stirring then, and just as I am about to say something, he finally brings the spoon to his mouth.

_'No, I don't need to **like** the boy. And he certainly doesn't need to like me.'_

I note somewhat pityingly that his hand is shaking.


	18. So Now You Know

Chapter 18 - So Now You Know

**Harry's POV**

* * *

_"Because I have to fast, I can't help it," said the hunger artist. _

_"What a fellow you are," said the overseer, "and why can't you help it?" _

_"Because," said the hunger artist, lifting his head a little and speaking, with his lips pursed, as if for a kiss, right into the overseer's ear, so that no syllable might be lost, _

_"because I couldn't find the food I liked..."_

-Franz Kafka, _The Hunger Artist_

* * *

Snape is going to eat me alive. He's livid.

I can tell.

I glance, inconspicuously I hope, at my watch.

3:41 pm! it tells me, not unkindly. Not like last night, when my alarm was utterly hysterical. This time it's encouraging me. I just have a little longer to wait, and then we'll **_have_** to leave. By necessity.

And there won't be a damn thing he can do about it, either.

I've stalled for over an hour, and we have to leave super soon if we're going to catch our trolley. My guess, given that the walk is about fifteen minutes in and of itself, is that we'll have to leave really shortly too...

As if reading my mind, I hear the git's voice cut into my thoughts, unwanted.

"Don't think you can delay the inevitable, Mr. Potter. If we have to take a later trolley, we'll take a later trolley, even if it's _dinner time._ I recommend you hurry up with this...formula."

_*Greasy git, calling it formula. Just to make me feel like a baby!* _

I absently pick up a can. I _OUTWARDLY_ absently pick up a can, just as a test.

_*God, I hate him...*_

Inside my heart is thrumming away and I want to scream.

"You gave me too much," I try to say it matter-of-factly. Like, _'you weren't following the rules.'_

Just like that, that's how I meant to say it: but I think he misunderstands me.

I hear Hermione start to say something at that, and I feel, all at once, this pressure in my chest.

_'Go away, go away, GO AWAY.'_

I don't want to drink this.

I feel sick.

I want to run to the restroom, and lock you both out, and bring up this soup, and bring up this stupid salad and horrid tea.

I don't want to drink this.

Drinking this will _hurt_ me.

And why won't my heart** slow. down?**

I feel something catch in my chest then: this** need**. This need to stand up. To get fresh air. To run.

My limbs feel tingly and heavy at the same time.

"Harry...," Hermione tries again, "come on, just drink it _quickly_. Just get it over with..."

I vaguely remember Remus saying something similar when he first threw me into the hospital.

_'Just get it __over with... Like ripping off a band-aid, kiddo'_

For the life of me, I can barely remember what it was about. Something really unpleasant. Something that I had to **force. out. **

There is no getting over this, though. Not this _eating _shit. Not quickly. It's going to sit in me every day, this rotten garbage, and it's going to make me swell up like Aunt Marge.

I'll look like a grotesque blubbering whale before they're done with my 'treatment'. I'll look like Dudley when they're done. And they'll say, when they find out, everyone will say, _'strange, he couldn't **stop it.** Bizare really...that he couldn't stand up for himself...how could he let something like **that** happen? Have you seen the BIG BOY?'_

Maybe they'll say I just didn't _fight_ hard enough. Maybe they'll say I _wanted_ it.

Because they'll find out. They _always_ find out. Nothing's ever private in my life.

And by the time they do, I'll be fat and big and I'll take up so much space and I _know I'll feel so disgusting_. So full of flesh and blood and cells screaming to be fed. I don't want it. I don't want it at _all_. I don't want to crave it, I don't want to need it. I'll never need sex, and I don't need food, either.

They're trying to turn me into something I hate, and I feel like my chest is going to rupture.

They are trying to push food down me, just like...

_'Don't think about it. Don't. Just ignore it. Just ignore it. It never happened. It never happened if you can FORGET it happened. All that's real are the memories....and you can make that one go away, if you try - if you really try!'_

"Mr. Potter," Snape flings out my name, this time not without a good dose of venom.

Something is clawing at the back of my throat. Threatening to get out. I think it's the cherry tomatoes.

Little red squishy bodies boiling to death in hot chamomile tea and warm vegetable soup.

They want to march up my throat, and I want to help them march. They are pressing on the bundle of nerves at the base of my stomach, _'Let us out. Let us out, Harry. We're dying.' _

I find myself laughing at that image, laughing at the near empty soup bowl. I try to stop laughing, and bite my lip, but that makes it worse, so I laugh into my hands.

When I think I've composed myself fairly well, after a moment, I stare up briefly just to make sure that Snape isn't going to, you know - **_kill me_**.

But Snape is staring at me totally goggle eyed, like I've lost my mind. Hermione is wringing her paper napkin between her hands nervously, looking between me and our Professor, oddly quiet, like she's afraid to breathe.

Then after a brief moment, he starts in on me.

"You think this is _FUNNY?_," Snape all but hollers, aware we are in a public setting.

A public setting with muggles.

Suddenly - _and I blame sleep deprivation for this, I really do!_ - I have an image of a bunch of red squishy human-sized cherry tomatoes sitting in the cafeteria waving at me and, somehow, smiling.

I find myself giggling into the cup of Ensure.

"Oh, aren't you a laugh riot! Wasting my time? Wasting Miss Granger's TIME? Drink that this _second_ or I'll pour it down your damned little throat!"

By the glint in his eyes, I'm almost afraid he will attempt it, too. Suddenly, the cherry-tomato vision vanishes.

"You gave me _too much - _you're only supposed to give me ONE can per meal, not two!," I all but holler back; I DON'T want to be a brat. I don't.

I **don't.**

**_*You're a good boy, aren't you? Yes, my good boy?*_**

**_*You want to be good, don't you?*_**

Suddenly the voice is **_his_**...the voice is HIS and I don't know why or how but suddenly it's in _my head - and my voice too, little me, child-me -_ and no amount of pleading, no amount of begging can get me to eat anymore.

**_*'Yes, Unca Vern'*_**

I need it out of me. I need it out **_now_**.

I know I'm really screwed up. I know there must be something really wrong with me. But if I have to stay here one more minute, I'm going to scream, I'm going to effing lose it.

I don't know why TODAY of all days HE has to come into my head, and taunt me. Maybe because I didn't hardly sleep at all last night. Maybe because I've managed to get away with sicking up almost everything they "force fed" me in the last three days...

Maybe it's effecting my mind. Not sleeping and not eating much. Or maybe I'm **_losing_** my mind.

_**'Maybe you do need the Ensure.'**_

_**'Maybe one can won't make you fat. Maybe it will just let you think clearly.'**_

I feel panic scraping at my vision, because I hate it when my body starts yelling at me to eat, too. Like...when you really _want_ to eat, because your _cells_ want to eat, but YOU, your MIND, still wants to push everything away.

That's when it's hard.

It's not so hard when anyone _else _wants you to eat, like Snape. That's easier to resist. But your own mind?

Your own mind makes up the damn rules in the first place. So when you start to get cell-hungry, that's when it's hard. Do you trust your mind, or do you trust your cells?

Who do you listen to then? Whose rules reign supreme?

Because only the rules keep everything alright.

_'1. A mile of running for a bowl of broth.'_

_'2. Two miles of running for a salad.'_

_'3. Each bite has to be chewed 28 times before you swallow.'_

_'4. If you screw up, you have to get rid of it.'_

_'5. If you binge, you have to fast to cancel it all out...'_

It's hard when part of your own body wants to eat. And eat, and _eat and **eat **_because you're so hungry that you could gnaw your own hand off.

_**'I'm not hungry. NOT HUNGRY.'**_

I feel so confused. I don't know what to do.

I stare at Snape for a moment then, and I know he's ready to lose it, but I just need him to know that I'm not trying to be a brat. Maybe, if he knows that - he won't **force me to drink all of it.** Maybe just _half of it_, like it's supposed to be. The rule was one can per meal, not two. Not two. The rule was only one can.

"Just swallow it, so we can be on our way," and I hear my Professor, faintly, tiredly.

_And I **don't** hear my Professor._

My heart is in my mouth then, and I bite down on my lips because then HIS face is in my mind, and I can see him overhead, overtop and that fat piggy face is staring at me, staring at a little me, a very little me, grinning, sneering, and he's bobbing like an apple in an apple bobbing contest, telling me to swallow, and that horrible body, that horrible flesh, just TAKING from me, so I can't breathe, and I can't cry, as he moves _up, down, up..._

**_*don't. go away. leave me alone*_**

"I need....I **_need_**...," I stress, panicked because _**why am I seeing THAT?, **_and then locking eyes with my Potions Master, trying to let him know - **_fucking Merlin I'm having some sort of ATTACK! _**- just with my eyes, not with my voice and...

_***damn no stupid jerk HARRY you stupid IDIOT don't cry in front of snape don't cry don't cry!***_

I just don't want anything inside me. Not my Uncle, not anyone else, EVER, not the Ensure. Nothing. I want to feel all pink inside. And pure.

I want to feel...free from this. Clean. I'm getting cleaner, inside, when I work at it, but I'm not quite clean enough _yet _because everytime I clean myself out, someone dumps a whole whack of food in front of me and forces me to eat it and dirty myself up again....

**_'CALM DOWN. CALM DOWN. HOLD IT TOGETHER.'_**

**_'You can get rid of what they made you gain, when you go back. You can run again. You can beat them...'_**

Snape's voice, once more, breaks me from the thoughts.

"You _NEED _to drink this, Harry, " and I think, by the way he cautiously phrases his next words, that he didn't mean to call me Harry at all.

"We may miss your scheduled dinner-time; that's why I've given you two cans now. It's not a punishment, Mr. Potter," and Snape is calmer himself then, eyeing me warily, actually trying to _reason_ with me, actually trying to be _nice_. _Nice_.

Well, for Snape.

"But I don't_ want it_," and I know my voice is coming out like a croak, all strangled-like. I can feel the panic edge into my heart because I know there is some fucking horrid thing my mind wants to show me, right now.

What's more, I'm terrified of the stupid drink. I'm actually SHAKING, I can feel it. I'm scared of a bloody _DRINK!_ How fucking screwed up is THAT?

"All the same, you WILL drink it," the voice cutting into my mind once more is stern, but I can tell my professor is not trying to be mean. I can tell he's trying_ really hard_.

Tears are coming to my eyes though, because the reality of everything is hitting me at once. How can memories come back to you, like that? How can they just come BACK out of nowhere? Just because of a word? Or a sound?

_***How little was I when he hurt me like that? How little? Five?***_

I want to throw up, because I know in my heart - that a lot of horrible stuff must have happened. And I want to be alone to process what I'm remembering, right now. I don't...I don't _want_ to remember, not **ever**. But I know my mind is going to show me one way or another. Whether I want to see, or not.

It just can't be here.

Not here. Not now. **_Not in front of them._**

**_*Please go away...*_**

So I look up, just for a moment. Because deep down I know he's always hated me, and if I can see that now, I'll get angry, and if I get angry, I can focus.

Because right now, I'm so scared that I'm going to lose my focus.

But when I meet his eyes, just for a second, I see it. Something worse than hatred.

**_Pity. _**

And in that moment, like a firebolt, like an electrical shock illuminating some truth, some unimaginably awful **_sick _**truth, I know one thing.

**_*He knows*_**

I stand up, almost involuntarily, queasy, because I KNOW in my heart HE KNOWS - _Snape knows!_ - and if **_he_** knows....

_***Then Hermione knows, too....***_

I try to leave, I try to leave so fast, but his hand is on my wrist -- _my weaker wrist, the bastard!_ -- and he's hissing at me to_ 'sit back down.'_

"Harry! _**Sir**...!_," and Hermione's eyes are round little globes now. She must know I'm losing it - she must know Snape's _going_ to lose it - and she doesn't know who to appeal to first.

"Let go. LET GO," and I'm whispering, but it's frantic, because things that are unreal are coming to me right now, overlapping, mingling with things that _are_ real.

And I'm terrified the unreal things are going to take over for awhile. I'm so scared I'm really sick. I don't want to live in my mind anymore. And I really want Remus. Remus would know what was wrong. Even if I made myself out to be a stupid dork, just horribly stupid and disgusting, I know he could keep me calm. He could keep me....**_here_**. Or get me help.

I feel like I'm going to vomit.

Then quickly - very quickly - I know I AM going to vomit, just like I know that Snape KNOWS about _**IT**_. I can taste salt in my mouth. The type of salty liquid that surges before you retch, when you're fluish. When you can't _help it_.

"I'm going to be sick," I breathe out rapidly, willing for my stomach to hold onto everything just for another minute. I can't get sick here. Not in front of Hermione. Not in front of Snape. Not in the bloody cafeteria!

Snape let's go of me immediately at that, his face suddenly losing the look of fierceness, and I run out of the violet mess hall as quickly as I can.

* * *

I manage to find a small public restroom, a lock-door restroom, just down the hall.

**_*You're sick. You're so fucking ill, Haarr-y. They are going to lock you up in St. Mungos, you freak!*_**

With speed I never knew I had, I'm inside, the door is closed, it's locked...

Then I'm over the toilet, pressing on my belly, bringing up the tea, the salad, the soup, and crying.

I don't know _why _I'm crying, except maybe I'm so angry that Snape knows - but, anyway, I don't know how to stop, either.

I was smart to turn on the taps, though: they're blasting out water now, obscuring the noise of the retching and the crying.

**_*You're safe. You're safe...*_**

I want to scream. I need to scream. I NEED to scream until I can't scream anymore. I want to punch something. Him, Snape, anyone, myself. I want to punch the fucking mirror and cut and cut and cut until he's out of me, until his poison is out of me and I don't feel sick anymore.

I DON'T want to see myself. I don't want to see anyone else. I want the real world to fade away. I want to fade away.

I want everything to fade away.

In anger, a fresh load of new anger, I take my hand and punch it with all my might into the mirror, which doesn't really crack.

**_*Probably because you are in a hospital for psychos, Potter*_**

The glass is very, very strong, obviously. It _must_ not be normal glass. But it's probably better that it's not, all truth be told. If I broke the mirror, the security guard would hear, and I'd probably be "escorted" back up to the ward for crazies and never be allowed to leave.

The pain, however, is helping me focus and knowing that it's calming me down, I hit it again. And again.

On the third time, I hear a crunch, like the snapping of a raw carrot, and I stiffle a howl.

I notice a smudge of blood on the mirror too as I bring my hand to my lap, which is already turning blue-black over two of the knuckles. Some of the flesh is torn. I suck on the blood.

_***Eat all your blood. Eat it all up. When you have no more blood, eat what's left...***_

I laugh softly then, sadly, because my mind sometimes presents me with such mentally deranged thoughts. Then THAT thought - _that I'm a lunatic, a verifiable lock-up crazy person! _- makes me want to cry again. Part of me realizes how completely fucking screwed up I am to laugh over something like that in the first place, and another part wants to keep thinking those sorts of thoughts, and laugh and laugh, not cry and cry.

* * *

When I go back to the toilet, I'm feeling calmer, because the pain is taking all my focus. If I don't focus on my anger or anything else, I don't feel so scared, I don't feel so panicked.

It's **why** I cut before. Can't they SEE that?

**_*They were fucking idiotic to say I had to stop!*_**

**_* Look what happens when I stop! I turn into a cry-baby basketcase!*_**

I blot up some of the residual vomit around the toilet, pee a little, and then flush everything away and wash my hands again. I swipe at my eyes, pour some cold water over my bruised knuckles, and then pull that hand up into my hoody as coverage. It's not bleeding very much at all, so it'll be easy to hide - it's mostly throbbing now, and the fingers are rather bruised - but I can cover that up, too, once I get back to Hogwarts.

I feel the knock first, rather than hear it. It vibrates, somehow, the energy.

"Mr. Potter?"

The voice is unmistakably Professor Snape's.

Yet there is something about the voice I cannot understand. Some quality. Some _cautionary quality. Like he doesn't want to startle me, or something._

It's not a sound I've heard before. I can't tell if he's bitterly angry, terribly sad, scared that I'm a lunatic. I just can't tell what's_ what_.

All I know is that the voice is quiet. Soft. Softer than _normal._

***What do you say to a teacher who hates your guts, when you've just acted like an IDIOT?***

I don't respond verbally. What to say, _what to say? _I just open the door, my eyes focused on my feet.

***Some fucking Gryffindor you are there, Potter!***

"I think...maybe...I have the flu or something, sir."

My voice comes out like a rasp, a wheeze. I think it's from the vomiting. Maybe throwing up so much is straining my vocal cords.

_***I know it's eating the enamel off my teeth. It actually HURT to sip the soup today....***_

Snape doesn't say anything for an impossibly long time, and it's making me nervous. I can tell that his eyes are surveying the room.

At long last, he speaks.

"Did you make yourself ill?"

My head is swimming, my heart is pounding. I'm so tired.

"Sir?," and somehow I'm terribly afraid. I don't know why. It's not like he's going to hit me for getting sick. Right?

He looks like he wants to say something. Something important.

"I didn't..._try_. I didn't try to get sick. I couldn't help it."

I can tell by his closed mouthed silence that he doubts that very much.

"I DIDN'T!"

"What? _What? _Please just stop staring at me," I whisper.

"Your...," and he stops suddenly, his face squinting, then starts again, "Are you still feeling sick? 'Fluish'?"

**_No. I just feel cold._**

"I didn't hear your response, Mr. Potter."

"No, not _fluish_," I really, really don't want to be talking to God damned _Snape_ about any of this...

"Are you feeling...unwell..._physically unwell_, in any other way right now?"

I bite back a scream, because I'm freaked out. My pride can take a backseat - that's how scared I am, with what's been happening in the last half hour.

"You are incredibly pale, and you are trembling. I noticed that earlier. I thought it was nerves. Are you cold?"

I want to say, _D'uh, I'm always cold,_ but I know that won't go over so well.

"Yes," I mutter, and because I know I can't keep scowling at Snape, I scowl at the floor instead.

All the same, I can tell that he's staring at me evenly. Analyzing me. Evaluating me. I don't like it one bit.

"Do you feel dizzy, light headed?"

I want to lie, but I know I won't get very far lying.

"A...a little. Maybe. Only sometimes. If I stand up suddenly. When I get off the elevator. Or after showers. If I'm too warm and I stand up. Stuff like that."

Damn my voice for konking out on me. Don't I sound_ brave_?

"W-why?," I try again, when he doesn't respond.

Snape continues to stare at me, levelly, before sighing.

"It's not in my opinion that you're well enough to return to school right now."

_**No no NO!**_

I swipe at my eyes then, feeling my stupid body welling up on me again, as if I haven't cried enough! I try so hard then, willing myself not to lose it.

"But I _need _to speak to Professor Lupin, sir. _Right away. Please!"_

**_*please. please. because what if they come, the images, and they don't stop?*_**

"Mr. Potter, " he begins solidly, soundly, his voice dropping to the barely audible range. We ARE in a muggle hospital, after all. I need to remember that.

"I am not recommending you stay _here, in this clinic_. But floo travel, while quite safe for those who are relatively healthy, still relies on a modest amount of...core energy...to ensure proper travel. Your energy is _severely_ limited right now. Your body is extremely malnourished. You cannot maintain a decent body temperature. You are suffering from orthostatic hypotension - again, brought about, I suspect, from malnutrition. Flooing doesn't take much energy, but it does require _some energy_, and I don't believe it's wise to tax your system any further than it already is being taxed. Not right now..."

"But I have to see Remus. _Right now_." I know it comes out like a hiss. I know I sound ungrateful. I know I sound like a brat.

Snape pinches the bridge of his nose.

"That's not possible, Mr. Potter. You know he is in the most difficult part of his cycle right now. That's why he did not come *today*."

**_*'Mr. Potter' is good, good. It'll keep the memories from coming.*_**

I don't mean to, then, but I feel my hands come down and rub my legs, through my jeans. I feel agitated. Manic. I want to come out of my skin. I want to rip off my shell and come out of myself. Something horrible is happening inside. I want to run away from it.

"Calm down. You'll have another panic attack, _silly boy_!"

But getting angry at me doesn't help. It makes it worse, it makes the memories worse, and I don't know why **_I'm so screwed up_**; I feel like I'm holding onto my current-self by a string, and the string is unravelling right now, and if I fall, I'm going to fall back somewhere else. _Someplace else_. Someplace I don't want to go. And there it is, then. The memory, short, clipped, just a short little exposure.

I bite down on my lip to stop myself from gasping at what I see in my mind, to stay in the present, and hurriedly claw at my legs, needing to generate some pain, needing to stop the assault, internally.

The pain will do that. It always does. It always has...

Snape sees my motions, and I _know_ they look frantic, but I can't stop, so he grabs my hands to still me - though by doing so he inadvertently grasps my freshly wounded hand. I let out a yowl.

He retracts his hands marginally, then gruffily orders for me to _"let him see." _

I do reluctantly.

_"I'm sorry," _and I don't know why I'm apologizing. It's not like I hit _him_. But I don't want him to get mad at me. It's weird and strange, in my head, right now. Maybe I really am mentally ill. Maybe I _should _be in a hospital. Yesterday, I would have laughed at that. Yet right now, right NOW, I think I'm losing my mind. Everything changes when you think you're losing your mind. You are so terrified of what's happening that you don't have energy enough to be mortified, also. Maybe that's it.

So I don't want him to hate me right now. **_I don't want him to hurt me right now. _**

"Why did you injure yourself like this? Did you think I wouldn't find out?," he asks cautiously, as if the words are foreign.

I groan into cupped hands. Apparently I can still feel embarassment. I take off my glasses; if I'm going to have to talk, I don't want him to see _me_. I don't know why not seeing _him _helps, but it does.

"Because something is wrong with my head," I mutter, hating myself for saying that much, but not wanting to incur his wrath. "I wanted to stay **_here_**."

_*please understand, please! don't make me say more. please*_

"You wanted to stay in the clinic?," the voice sounds far away and perplexed, and I grasp onto the black sweater like it's a lifeline - even if it's SNAPE's - because I need to know that there _IS_ another person with me right now, and I _AM_ here, and I_ DON'T _have to go back.

"No," I say, hearing my own voice, warbling and dismal. "No. I didn't want to go away. This hasn't happened since I've been really little. I used to be able to make myself go away. But only when things were bad..."

"_**'Go away'**_," the voice doesn't belittle the term I use, just accepts it, just _knows_. Snape's smart. I know he understands what my phrasing means.

"You're having flashbacks."

Not a question but a statement. I don't even have to nod. I just sit really still, and feel my breath hitch in my lungs, not wanting to come out, like it's playing peak-a-boo, without the _boo_. I mentally force myself to breathe, before I get even dizzier. I don't know why saying it..._like that_...would make me feel so wretched, like such a freak. But it does.

It makes me feel scared.

Flashbacks are things that crazy people have...

"Mmmhm," a silent yes, and does he see my head nod in response? Mostly I'm completely horrified that I'm talking about this. With Snape of all people.

"I had one earlier, sort of, I think," I say softly, because I really don't want to be discussing this at all. Not with anyone. Least of all with him.

Though for all his dourness and past torment, I also know that he's a _professor_, and he's been put in charge with keeping me safe. Besides, he's not yelling at me like he normally would if I had ruined his day, so something's changed. Maybe he thinks I'm just so completely fucked that he has to watch what he says and does, or Dumbledore will take a strip out of him.

But his quietness is unnerving. When he speaks again, it's as if the last three minutes of our 'discussion' have been deleted.

"There are several options for the upcoming weeks. I will discuss all of them with you, alongside Professor Lupin, when he's able, but for tonight, and possibly over the weekend, I think it's best if you stay at Grimauld. I can contact who I need to contact through the main floo network, and Miss Granger can stay with you while I do so. It's also not far from our current location, and it will afford you the opportunity to rest."

At the suggestion that I would need _Hermione_ to babysit me, I feel a blush creep into my face suffusing it with a bit of colour.

Of course, I'm so damn tired, I could turn off the light in this dingy washroom right now, curl up beneath the toilet and I wouldn't care. I _crave _to sleep, even more than I crave to eat. Because some part of me, I know, really _wants_ to eat. I don't know how to explain it. To want to eat so badly and to not want to eat so badly all at the same time.

The physical exhaustion, all the same, is so much worse than the hunger right now.

I wrap my hoody tighter around myself then, feeling uncomfortable, feeling as if Snape can see through me, know what I'm thinking, know what I'm _feeling._ Know how disgusting I am...

I shiver.

I really am very cold, too.


	19. Until Now

Chapter 19 - Until Now

**Hermione's POV**

* * *

Back to the waiting room. _Again._ It's aptly named.

I feel horrid, though, not being there for him. I mean, Harry's _my _friend. Part of me understands why Professor Snape would deny my request to come along, and it's really strange to consider the reasons. Because none of the reasons have anything to do with wanting to make Harry feel worse, or stupid, or embarassed. Quite the opposite, really.

At long last - and it is quite a while, really, maybe 15 minutes, maybe more - Harry and our Professor emerge from the restroom. From this distance I can see Snape talking in low tones to the nearby security guard who is staring at Harry like he's some sort of _criminal or something ridiculous. _Snape's sort of indicating with his hands that 'everything's fine' and smoothing things over.

Odd to see _Snape_ of all people smoothing things over.

Especially from here - as to a common passerby, he may just look angry. But I know he's not _really_ angry. His face is drawn tight and he looks, well, _not_-hatefully at Harry. His eyes keep darting to the smaller boy every few seconds, monitoring, carefully, Harry's every move. Like he's some sort of ticking time bomb.

I don't like it one bit.

And I feel sort of dazed. Like...how did everything go **so wrong**? Certainly Harry's had to drink those chalky Ensure drinks before. Certainly he doesn't have a...melt down...not like this, not everyday?

My heart won't stop racing like a jack rabbit.

_*What is _**_wrong _**_with my friend?* _

* * *

We are riding in a black taxi cab. I'm in the back, with Harry, who is currently staring distractedly out of the window, his hands wrapped around his belly, like he's giving himself a hug, or trying to keep himself warm. Maybe both.

Snape is in the front, patiently giving one and two word answers to the inane questioned ramblings coming from our driver. It may be all rather _"superfluous drivel", _as I know he'd call it, but it probably is not _completely_ unwanted. It would be way too tense in the car if there were no noise, save for our breathing. And Snape can play it like awkward silence doesn't bug him, but deep down, I think it bugs everyone.

This way, at least a little bit - everything seems more _normal_.

I look back to my friend, to his left hand, the fingertips, following the pattern of raindrops on the outer pane of window glass as the droplets trail their way down and pool into a little curvature, collecting. Part of me is glad it's raining. The rain is very soothing, the sound. It feels very cleansing, very cool. Harry needs that right now.

"Harry," I breathe out the word, lightly, as if testing it. I feel like my mouth is full of marbles, and it's hard for any comprehensible sound to escape.

_*Why is it so hard to talk to him? To talk to him at **all**?*_

He turns in his seat, slowly, as if waiting for me to say something more, or ask a question. But there is no ease in his actions. I can sense his tension. I'm dimly aware of the fact that every noise, every turn, every single moment between us right now is taught with this...friction. It's a friction that wasn't there just a few hours ago, and some deep part of me is providing possible...scenarios...as to why he's feeling so ashamed, now.

One answer, prominent in my mind, is also highly probable. Intuition tells me it's right.

_***He knows that I know. That I know what happened***_

It makes sense. Because I can feel his shame.

I wonder if Snape let him in on it, or if he figured it out by himself.

Both situations are unpleasant, made moreso by the fact that I don't know what to do to make things better for him. Apparently just talking to him is making him tense.

I also can't ignore reality. If I do that, I won't help him, and I won't make things easier for him in the future.

"Do you feel better now?," I try, almost in a whisper, almost like I DON'T want our Professor to hear, even though I know he hears _everything. _Part of me senses that he doesn't want me to even address Harry _at all _right now. And I don't want to set either of them off. Not in a taxi cab. Not after what I saw at the clinic.

"Mmmhm," he says softly, which is Harry's way of saying _yes_, when he's either really nervous, or I guess - ashamed. Or...when he doesn't want to talk to someone.

_*But I'm his friend. Why would he want to avoid me? Why would he talk to Snape, presumably, and not to me?*_

"You know where we're going?," I try again.

A nod. I know where we are going, too. He doesn't say anything else though, so I turn in my seat, and face my own window. And think.

* * *

Snape filled me in very quickly while we waited for our taxi, while Harry scrunched himself up into one of the waiting room couches, his body so small that he could almost make a bed of it...

Just seeing his exhaustion then, knowing a lot of it was generated by no one else but himself, it made me feel so strange. Like...how do you help your best friend when they don't _want _to eat or sleep or be held, even though you know they are scared out of their mind?

Or when they are so tired of what they're doing to themselves, but so scared to ask for help?

How do you maintain their dignity_ then_ - when they're fighting...not just against everything _you _want to do for them, but fighting against _themselves_, too?

And I know this is a really complicated matter. I know it won't be resolved in a few weeks, or even months. I think so much of it...has been boiling away beneath the surface for years now. A lot of things make sense though, in retrospect. The fact that Harry's always acted like he's indisposable...so long as he is helping someone else.

Like everyone is precious - everyone _but himself_.

The fact that he's drawn to activities, risky activities, that could cause him pain, but terrified of anything that has an _emotional _risk attached to it.

Even, oddly, his nervousness around Ginny.

For a long time, I thought maybe the nervousness was just because she had a crush on him, and then from about fouth year onwards, I knew he sort of had a crush on her, too. But now...his behavior...certain aspects at least, highlight what was normal for a boy his age, and what wasn't...and isn't...

In some distant region of my mind, I remember this really disturbing conversation the two of us had had slightly more than a year ago, around Christmas.

Ron had made himself woozy with candy and crap, and Harry was being a little more talkative. No doubt because he was tipsy.

He was usually so closed-mouthed about things like girls, dating. I remember then, thinking _'why doesn't he want to talk to Ron about this, instead?'_, but part of me felt really wonderful thinking that he must have trusted me - trusted me _a lot _- to do so. Of course, the ease with which he spoke then was due, no doubt, to the earlier consumption of four, **_count 'em four_**, butterbeers. But I also remembered thinking that the conversation wasn't normal. And it scared me in some undefinable way.

At the time, I just tried to assure myself that nothing was _really_ wrong... and that maybe Harry was just incredibly timid about things like crushes, and kisses and anything more. Anything that could develop from it.

I also knew that wasn't the whole story.

* * *

_''You've had too much to drink, Potter.' I laugh, and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. It comes naturally enough. _

_I do it almost without thinking. _

_Weird._

_'Merry Christmas, Har'._

_It's not Christmas yet. But close enough. And I'm leaving for home tomorrow, so..._

_He stares at me. Blinks dumbly. _

_'I'm hot. I want to go outside.' _

_Alright._

_But he's not exactly walking evenly, so I help him. _

_I know that if we head back before he's a little more composed, we're going to be roasted alive by McGonagall. _

_Maybe some cold air will sober him up a bit. __What was he thinking, anyway - **four** butterbeers? _

_Harry is a lightweight with alcohol. __He's more than relaxed at one, and at two - at two he already starts to get a little unsteady on his feet._

_The moment he's outside, though, I realize he can't be that hot, because in two seconds flat, he's shivering._

_'Why would you drink four, Harry? I told you...you don't handle alcohol very well.' _

_I know I sound bossy. I can't help it. He's going to feel so sick tomorrow. _

_Why won't they ever listen to me? I'm usually right. They know it. I know it._

_'But I feel so **good**,' he states drowsily, interrupting my thoughts._

_'No you don't...you're drunk.'_

_'I DO feel really good, Hermione. I feel excelllllent. I wish I could feel like this forrrrever,' he rambles._

_I think this is the first time Harry's actually **been** drunk. I've never been drunk, myself, but I know I've never seen him quite this wobbly before._

_I take it upon myself, then, to zip up his jacket as he stands immobile in the snow, staring at the setting sun. I make sure that his scarf is well enclosed around his neck as well. I can tell he's cold._

_He's never been one to take proper care of himself, and I know that's largely because he never had a mum to teach him how to do it._

_It makes me really, really sad. I have a wonderful mum and dad. And he doesn't have anyone. _

_Just his awful aunt and uncle. And that bully of a cousin. _

_He has me and Ron, now, of course. And other friends. But who did he have when he was really small?_

_I know that his awful guardians wouldn't have ever hugged him when he was little, and scared._

_He probably cried and cried as a baby, and no one ever picked him up._

_I bet he was mocked when he had to get his shots, when he was still just a terribly little boy._

_When was he was supposed to be learning such basics as buttoning up?_

_His voice cuts through my internal monologue._

_'I wish I could feel...like the same, around Ginny. Like I do with you, 'Mione - but with her, too,' he mutters, before giving me a sheepish smile._

_For one second I can't help but feel uncomfortable._

_I'm really hoping that's not his way of saying that he has a crush on **me**. That would be beyond awkward._

_'Harry...you know that, to me, you're my best friend. My best friend, only, right?'_

_My voice is strained, and he stares at me woozily, before laughing his drunk little laugh._

_'Yes. You're my best friend too. You're my beeestest friend,' he says with a chirruping laugh again, and falls to his knees._

_Ok. Ok. _

_So long as that's clear._

_Good._

_I'm sort of relieved that Ron's still chittering away in the Three Boomsticks with Dean._

_Harry would never talk about Ginny if Ron was around. I know he wouldn't._

_I squat down in the snow beside him, clearing some snow off a large, smooth rock, so I don't freeze._

_'So what do you mean then...about feeling the same? You shouldn't feel the same about Ginny, as 'just a friend.''_

_He stares at me, questioning._

_'And why not?,' he says, before hiccoughing._

_I'm growing frustrated. _

_'Because you don't have a crush on me, Harry! And I don't have one on you. Of course our relationship is different! I'm just your friend!'_

_'But you're not 'just' a friend, Mione. You're like a sis-ter!,' he sings softly, his breath coming out in little white puffs, mingling and disappearing into the blue-black sky._

_'That's what I *mean.* You don't want to have a crush on Ginny, and feel like she's your sister too, do you? That would seem, I think, I dunno, a little incestuous or something...,' I prattle off, easily enough, at first not seeing the crushed look on his face, the horrible look of harm on his features. _

_But not for long. _

_I hear his breath hitch and look up to see his features contorted. Like he's in pain._

_'I didn't...I did-**n't** mean something sick like that!'_

_Holy. God. Calm down._

_What happened? We were just talking about crushes, and now he's pacing up and down, his hands in tight little fists, looking like he's gonna cry?_

_'I'm not sick like that!,' he reiterates, his voice rising. _

_I can see tears in his eyes, then._

_'I'm not a fucking sicko!,' he hisses, the warm mood of earlier gone, and he swipes at his eyes._

_I've never seen him behave like this. Not ever._

_'Chill out Harry! I didn't mean anything bad by it! I just meant you shouldn't feel the same...'_

_'Why?,' and the why? sounds strangled._

_'Why shouldn't I feel safe?,' and he gets up too quickly then, his whole world spinning, before he stumbles and comes to hold onto a nearby pine tree for support._

_I feel...stunned._

_Safe?_

_That's what he means? That he feels safe with me, but doesn't feel safe with Ginny?_

**_What?_**

_I feel colder all of a sudden, and I don't know why, myself._

_I see him swipe at his eyes again._

_'Come sit down. Come sit here by me. You can barely stand,' I try to say as evenly as possible. _

_He does. _

_I didn't think he would._

_But a drunk Harry is an obedient Harry, I think. It's almost like I can cut through this...veil, when he's drunk._

_Which is really peculiar. You'd almost think it would be the opposite._

_'I DIDN'T mean anything of the sort. I was just being sort of flippant. I just wanted you to talk to me. Because you always freeze up when it comes to Ginny.'_

_I rub his back, rub it in slow, soothing circles, knowing I can get away with it right this instant. But not tomorrow._

_Not when he's fully aware._

_'I'm glad you feel safe with me. I'm really, really glad.'_

_And my heart is squeezing painfully. Constricted._

_Because this is **not** a normal conversation to have with a 15 year-old-boy._

_Who else would ever think that having a crush was dangerous?_

_Scary?_

_That there was something sick or wrong with someone liking you back?_

_He puts his face in his hands, and I feel so out of my depths._

_He's never acted so...strange...before._

_'Has something happened?,' I ask, really quietly. Because I think something **must** have happened._

_He shakes his head no._

_'You're sure?'_

_He nods. But his eyes are staring off, distantly._

_'Why don't you feel safe with Ginny?'_

_He continues to stare off at some focal point that I can't see. _

_I don't think he's going to answer._

_Then he does._

_'Because I know how she feels about me. I know she likes me...like **that**...'_

_It's a really, really bizare thing to say._

_'So what? So that's good, Harry. It's good that she likes you, I think. I mean what's bad about that?'_

_His head is still in his hands. He looks miserable._

___' And you like her, like **that**, too - don't you?'_

_I have to struggle to hear what he says next._

_'I'm scared to like anyone like like, Hermione. I don't want to have those sorts of feelings. They're bad. For** me**.'_

_It's so quiet that I hear him gulp. Hear him take in air._

_'But I can't help it. I like her. I almost wish I didn't. It scares me.'_

_I know right that second that it's__ not typical nervousness. It's not just butterflies-in-your-stomach kind of thing._

_This is something different._

_This is something bad._

_My mouth feels horribly dry._

_'What scares you? Why is that so scary?'_

_Damn my voice for shaking now. Damn it. _

_His arms are wrapped around his belly, again, but he slowly let's me extricate himself from his own fierce grip._

_'It makes me feel all gross inside,' he whispers, not meeting my eyes. PURPOSEFULLY avoiding my eyes, actually._

_I wrap my arms around him instead. My head is against his chest. I can feel his heart pounding away, like a wild animal._

_'Gross?'_

_*He's scared. He's so scared*_

_'Dirty.'_

_That's all he says. Just that._

_Just the one word._

_At first I think that he must have said something else._

_Or will say something else._

_But that's all he says. _

_'It doesn't make you dirty, Harry,' my voice not wavering anymore, but also not coming out as strong as I'd like._

_Because I know something really bad has happened._

_Something really awful._

_I also know when he speaks next that the alcohol must be wearing off._

_'Let's not talk of this anymore, alright? Let's not talk about this ever again. I don't want to.'_

_He's not meeting my eyes._

_'Harry...'_

_'It's not important, anyway.'_

_*Not important?*_

_He's staring glumly at his sneakers. _

_'This is my problem, Hermione...'_

_'**Harry**...,' I try, once more, feeling cold and empty when he pulls away, breaking all physical contact._

_I can't begin to understand his fear. _

* * *

**Until now.**


	20. The Nature of Sleep

Chapter 20 - _The Nature of Sleep_

* * *

**Remus' POV**

* * *

At first I think I'm hearing things. Scuffled noises, like rats crawling under wooden beams. No - that's not right, exactly. The sound is more fluid, like something dragging _across_ floor boards.

I cannot sleep, however, not well, and quickly dismiss the sounds as mere hallucinations brought about by sheer physical exhaustion.

I'm well into the second day of my cycle now, although the discomfort is worse than typical. My nerves feel inflammed, and my sockets feel shrunken - the eyes themselves feel hard, gritty - _sandy_ - when I close my eyelids. A weird dull ache such as what you'd experience if you hit the front of your head into a metal beam wraps around the front of my skull.

I rub at my eyes again, then reach forward to grab a jumper from the front of my nightstand, wrapping the black cloth around my face to block out whatever light would otherwise hit my retinas. The jumper holds a pale scent of mint. It has been stashed in my book bag, which is where I usually keep student papers that still require marking. The bag also contains a tin of liquorice Altoids that Harry himself gave to me upon our return to school in September.

In fact, he gave me the altoids, and also a book on defensive muggle techniques called _"martial arts." _Even at the start of the year, I can recall sensing some sort of meaning, some sort of code, in the gift itself - a book focused on central key components of muggle-style defensiveness such as control of the mind and emotions, or the benefits of meditation in overcoming fear and pain. Highly informative, and very much appreciated, but now, in gloomy retrospect, I can't help but re-assess Harry's earlier actions as being some sort of signal.

Some sort of signal before all this..._noise_. All this mess.

A signal _to_ the noise.

I riffle around, pull out the tin, and stare at the muggle mints feeling a too-strong bloom of sadness as I take in the silver container, the black lettering, the golden embossing. I remove a mint, then tuck the little metal container away again, willing the pain out of my chest, the cycle-pain if not the older, stronger pain as well.

After I down the last dose of wolfsbane for the afternoon, I reach for the single mint to obliterate the cloying taste of the medicine. The plants used to make this particular concoction are overly bitter, and so to keep subjects from retching, vast amounts of stevia extract and other herbal sweeteners are added until the liquid is quite thick and syrupy.

Of course, the viscosity of the potion causes the taste to linger far after you've consumed the stuff: the whole mixture practically congeals to your throat before you're through with it...

My thoughts are interrupted again by the scuffled sounds; louder, faster now, and I sit up, recognition as to what I'm hearing filling me immediately.

Not a knock, then, not a voice - _nothing_. Just a _barging into _my cramped, bookish quarters, remnant cups filled with chai tea still cluttering up my marking table, the stale scent of sandalwood incense drifting through the air...

_***You really should have cleaned up already!***_

Snape's eyes dart around then, taking in my organized chaos. Hermione once called such an environment "chaordic" when referencing how Ron Weasley tended to exist, or rather, what she termed his "chaordic subsistence."

I realize such a term may apply to _my_ space as well. Certainly presently, though my quarters are never dirty so much as _untidy_. Of course, I know where everything **_is_**, and that's all that really matters, especially given that I do not care to inhabit a place that feels markedly sterile.

"Don't tell me you have something against the use of house elves as well, Lupin? I thought that was simply a focus of that insufferable know-it-all!"

He means Hermione, of course, and given my profound sense of being drained (blood-let really), I have very little resolve to put up with unfair snarkiness.

"_Yes_, Severus. _Of course _I abhor _concern_ for easily abused, _classically abused_, magical creatures who have never shown any violence or animosity towards wizards despite their abominable treatment at our hands. No, that would be simply_ insufferable_!," and I massage my temples with my fingers, digging deeply to relieve some of the pressure - the sense that my head has been caught in a vice grip increasing with every passing moment.

"Are you through?," he asks rather disinterestedly, as he moves to pick up a half marked essay next, and all but rolls his eyes at my commentary before returning the paper to its rightful place.

No doubt he thinks I've been too easy on the student, who is in fact a muggle-born first-year Hufflepuff who has actually done remarkably well given her non-existent magical instruction before the current term.

For first years, especially muggle-borns, I tend to award effort more than obvious displays of formal knowledge, because anything else would be decidedly unfair. In fact, my suggestion of two entry streams for first and second years has been largely ignored by the headmaster in the past, although most of the other professors do see the merit behind the suggestion.

First years may all arrive as 11-year-olds, chronologically. But muggle-born first years usually know very little to nothing of our world, our rules, and the basics that allow for proper transitioning into a classic wizarding instruction. The fact that so many apply themselves with such fervor, and do indeed "catch up" to their age-mates usually by third or fourth year is already testament to their dedication. However, I fail to see how mockery and derisiveness is going to encourage a child to apply themselves with any passion for a subject. The fact that most do suceed only speaks of their strength, not the efficacy of using hostility as a means of motivation.

So, if Snape is going to attack the child for possessing an even more _"deficient mind than is typical for a Hufflepuff," _I'm going to have some comments and retorts of my own ready.

I need not have been preoccupied by this idea, however, as his next comments are not a bashing of the child, but a bashing of _me_.

"This place smells sour, Lupin. Reeks."

The description is a little bit the exaggeration, I would think, especially coming from a Potions instructor whose own quarters don't smell anything as gloriously fragrant as rain drops or rose petals.

In fact, my own supremely tuned olfactory sense picks up cardamom from the tea, star anise from the mints, and the heat of binding glue. Overall a slightly_ dusty bouquet _perhaps, but definitely not a foul aroma.

"A little disorganized, maybe. I do _apologize with all my heart:_ I haven't felt up to housekeeping tasks the last few days."

The sneer turns into a mean-spirited little scowl at that, as Snape clears out a space for himself at the table, muttering something under his breath about me being a _"sarcastically aggravating little cur."_

While I'd consider that description a case of the pot calling the kettle black, I don't wish to keep this roundabout conversation focused on every other subject but the one I know he's come to discuss, and so bite my tongue.

"Please shut the door," I say resignedly, holding onto my composure and doing everything in my power to not bark out the words. The pounding thrum in my head has increased and I could nip down on my lips to keep from howling.

My voice comes out groggily too, as I pull the burgundy comforter up higher to my throat - yearning to burrow my face into the cloth. The light from the halls, what little light it may be, is now hurting my eyes and making me wince.

Snape does fulfill my request however, remarkably, and without further commentary. When he turns back to me he sports instead a rather hostile - and _accusatory_ - look.

I aim for barest pleasantries.

"Thank you for picking up Harry. I don't think his doctors would have been too...understanding of my condition."

Those steel grey eyes are still watching me, evaluating me. At long last, he speaks.

"You are _unbelievable!_" he begins, in his typical slow-paced drawl.

I don't have the energy to guess at what is bothering him.

"Yes, I'm aware how you see me, Severus. But I do wish to extend gratitude, I...," and a coughing fit has me going then.

I feel rather limp.

Snape reaches for a water pitcher, and fills a nearby glass.

"I cannot fathom your 'logic'! To think that my presence would have been remotely _appropriate_. Or that such a meeting would be easier for the boy than none at all!," he all but shouts, the water is thrusted out towards me with such haste that it sloshes over the confines of the glass and splashes onto the floor.

"Please lower your voice," I try, my voice sounding even weaker than before, to my regret. I drink the proffered glass of water though - greedily - wondering how I got to such a state of marked dehydration without realization.

"I'm sorry for... inconveniencing you, Severus. But you know Albus was concerned with the sightings, and wardings or not, it was safest for Harry to be released **now**. Not a _week from now_. As soon as possible. And I was already rather..."_under the weather"_...on a previous correspondence..."

I'm a little confused as to the sustained glares coming my way.

"You should have filled me in, you fool! You are far more delusional than even _Potter_ if you think this morning could have been anything other than an utter _disaster_..."

I admit: I was not expecting to hear such a vehement response. And Snape looks...haggard. His features hard, but not harsh. Not angry so much as...unnerved.

"What's happened?," I try simply, not knowing quite the problem, and not wishing for louder tones.

"I don't think the boy can afford to return to Hogwarts," he starts, sounding unnaturally resolved.

The words, however, flutter through the fogginess of the wolfsbane and the pain medication and stir something up in my core.

"_'You don't think...?'_..._WHERE _is Harry, Snape? Where is he **_right now_**?"

For one insane moment, an image of Harry still locked up in the clinic springs to mind. I wouldn't put it past Snape to do something like that if the boy had simply rubbed him the wrong way. Which could possibly be accomplished by the kid breathing, really.

Without realizing it, not a moment later I'm up off the chesterfield and searching for my jacket.

"Damn it, Snape! You can't hate him that much! You-"

"I don't_ hate him_, you demented lycanthrope! Calm down before you make yourself weaker. I fulfilled your asinine "plans", and removed him from that..._clinic_," the words are spoken contemptuously and he rushes on in a voice more animated and intense than is typical.

"In my estimation, he's too weak for floo travel back to the castle. At least tonight. He's at Grimmauld until we can select a better option for how to proceed."

My face must show my hesitancy to believe his words, to believe that Harry could possibly be quite _that ill_, given his initial release of simply another week from today's date.

Snape fusses with the cuff on his robe, pulling the black material taught before continuing.

"My last diagnostic scan showed bradycardia and an extremely low blood pressure. Far too low for basic floo travel requirements._ Or apparition_. The boy gets dizzy just standing up too quickly, for merlin's sake! Any magical form of travel, with him being so weak, is going to lead to splinching... or something even _worse_."

This doesn't make sense. Certainly he can't be _that _sick. Not any longer. Not without the muggle doctors realizing he'd be too weak for release.

I feel a sense of dread, then, as I go over Snape's earlier words.

Diagnostic spells can show all recent and _healing_ injuries sustained to bone, ligaments, muscles, _tissues_. All flesh. The classic diagnostics reveal all injuries, although small, innocuous wounds are not likely to cause much feedback.

But bad wounds?

**_Deep _**wounds...

Even those in the process of healing...

Those would all show up.

_***But what else could you have done?***_

And Snape's look is guarded.

"_**You** _performed a diagnostic on Harry? He_ let you _run medical tests on him?"

"_Let_ is a rather...questionable term. Diagnostic spells are neither painful nor overtly obvious, necessarily. They do not require touch. I was able to perform one quite successfully while he slept. The results are...," and I can't quite bring myself to meet his eyes, feeling rather like I should have tried very hard indeed to perhaps...

_***Not get ill? Not succumb to the cycle?***_

When I look up again, I see those eyes, those intelligent grey eyes studying me. Because I know what an in-depth diagnostic would have shown.

I know.

And Snape knows.

_***What could you do, really? Go against Dumbledore and risk Harry's life, given weak wardings and death eater sightings?***_

_*You knew it was a possibility, too. That Snape would find out. But you just didn't want to bring it up in case it did remain concealed...* _

"Calm yourself Lupin. I merely looked for essentials that would reflect current health. Heart rate, pulse, electrolyte balance, _weight_. Though you should have informed me of his past...injuries. How I am to prepare for possible scenarios if I am not informed of the basics?"

_***You didn't want to discuss it at all...***_

"I told you the basics! Everything else was...extraneous to what you needed to do, what you needed to accomplish, and I did not feel like-"

**_*You expect Harry to talk of things that you don't even want to think about... You're an utter hypocrite!*_**

"_Extraneous? _**_No_**, you simply did not _feel _like informing me of some...unpleasant but necessary information! That's all there is to it!"

**_*You expect Harry to talk of things that...even Snape doesn't want to speak about...*_**

I breathe in deeply.

"I disagree. Just because I was too ill to collect Harry without questions or delays didn't mean - doesn't equivocate - into the _sitter-"_

"_'Sitter!',_" he roars, and I wince at the noise, but carry on, only minimally affected.

"Yes! I did not care to fill you in on all the aspects of Harry's life that were truly private!"

"You mangy werewolf! Are you completely mad?"

I intercede, not wanting to experience a full-fledged Snape-ranting session. "You _knew he was struggling_, that he was stressed - that his behavior may have been..._atypical!_ Nothing else...**_nothing else_** I felt the need to divulge! Especially given your history with him!"

"Longbottom **_struggles_** in my class, you maudlin idiot! And Granger is **_stressed_** before exams! Potter's downright bloody _disturbed_!"

"He's simply _struggling _right now! His responses are totally understandable given what's happened to him recently! Given what's happened to him for years, actually!"

"Yes, _understandable_, perhaps-" Snape asserts, and some of the fire, some of the loudness seeps from his voice as he continues. "Be that as it may be: he's_ more than struggling_, and what you failed to mention almost led to his being detained in that... establishment! While I can fairly easily obliviate one or two muggles if need be, I cannot take on a whole hospital successfully by myself! Not while having to deal with a child who has active..._episodes_! Nor... once he has taken it upon himself to damage hospital property!"

"_Episodes_?," and I know my voice comes out as a dumb, stilted query.

"Yes! Don't play the ignorance card with me, Lupin! That child can't even consume a normal meal without being_ 'stressed'_ into experiencing some sort of flashback. Though I take it they are not a new development. He mentioned that he's struggled with them before," and the words are clipped.

I'm doing my best to find my shoes, and then when I do, the articles feel odd as I clumsily put them on my feet. My head feels clogged as if weighed down with cotton batten - a sensation which is already distracting, never mind the fact that the discussion at hand seems surreal.

Perhaps this sense of _unreality _is because I keep noting the slightest notes of empathy in the Potion Master's voice as he mentions certain events.

Perhaps it's because he's speaking with relative concern at all?

But it's more than that, too. A lot more.

The subject matter is so heinous - it's hard to actually approach intellectually, and doubly so emotionally.

Snape continues to fill me in as to the morning's developments as I lace up my sneakers, and then consume an extra-strength pain potion. As I muster energy to face the upcoming floo, which always increases my sense of nausea, the dour man runs a diagnostic scan yet again. This time on me.

Despite my sense of being run down by a muggle cement mixer, Snape deems me healthy enough to travel.

* * *

I can sense the difference in air quality immediately. Whereas my lodgings had a slight wooden mustiness about them - an old-paper and old-tea scent - Grimmauld Place has a far less... _comforting_ quality. The air here feels crisp - and arctic cold.

And oddly scented. A metallic smell, almost. Like copper and salt.

Like blood.

Faint, but unmistakably blood.

_And bile salts._

I look over to Snape quickly, and he meets my eyes, knowing I can sense something amiss.

"Was he injured? At all?," and the fear causes the questions to come out in a rapid hiss though my voice barely rises above a whisper.

Snape's brows knit together at that, as if he's unsure on how to answer the question.

"Potter...did _repeatedly _hit his hand against a muggle cabinet... and damaged some of his knuckles. But the injury itself did not bleed excessively-"

No.

This is something _different_ than a surface flesh wound_. _

There is a biting quality to the scent, like acid mingled with curdled milk. And a note of strawberries. Something artificially sweet, too.

I survey the main room, and then the main conference room that the order uses during meetings, before wandering onwards to the kitchens, and then towards the main halls. As I reach the stairs, the scent grows stronger, and so I take to the stairs two at a time.

"Hermione, Harry!," I call out lightly, not wanting to sound alarmed or instill apprehension in either teen. I pace quickly down the third floor hallway next, and rap on one of the guest room doors. The pain against my eyes almost blinds in intensity as I open the first door and catch sight of a dark figure back-lit by gentle light. The form, petite, pops up from the bed, and rushes over wordlessly. I first recognize messy chestnut curls and then the face swims into view while my eyes adjust further to the pinkish light.

"Professor Lupin, sir- are you okay? _Oh sir_, you don't look _well_," Hermione whispers, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the dead silence of the stone cold flat.

"Here Sir, come sit down over here," she states with insistence, and my eyes take in the room as her voice fades out again. I can slowly feel the great heat surrounding this area, before catching sight of Harry huddled underneath mounds and mounds of blankets, a scrunched up jumper beneath his dark head in lieu of a pillow, dead to all the world.

"He fell asleep maybe twenty minutes ago? I don't think he got very much sleep last night...," she starts, almost timidly.

Hermione then leads me to a smaller armchair, where I surmise she herself had been resting. Or rather - keeping watch.

"Actually, I think he... mostly... doesn't want to talk to me," and I can't help but feel badly for her - so worried that her friend is rejecting her attempts of comfort. Rejecting _her. _

"No, I don't think it's that, so much, Hermione. I'm sure he is, indeed, exhausted. I'm sure that's all there is to it."

Of course _that _is a lie. I'm sure it's a little bit of both, actually, but I'm not about to go for brutal honesty when I know the girl before me will take her friends discomfort as personal rejection.

An overthrow is draped over top, and Hermione all but forces me to sit down, before wrapping me up in the throw, tight, like a mummy. I look up, amused, to see Snape enter as she continues her ministrations, unaware of his presence.

"Professor, really - you look so pale! Almost as pale as _Harry_," she starts, only to catch sight of the other man and immediately cease speaking.

Snape watches Harry intently for a moment before gliding over to the bed and pulling aside a stashed bucket.

"He was sick _again?_," he asks not unkindly, but certainly not warmly as he surveys the contents.

I see the girl fret, as if expecting a rebuke.

"I encouraged him to drink one of those muggle drinks, and he _did _- but he started to get nauseous some time later. I found the bucket in the kitchen just in case...just in time..."

Her voice sounds almost apologetic, as if she's done something wrong.

"I really...almost _pushed_ him to drink it. I shouldn't have been so insistent, maybe. But he said his stomach _hurt _and I thought it would help with the pain to take some of it in, to coat-"

Snape dismisses her with a wave.

But she looks up at me then, as if to impart something she doesn't wish for her Potions professor to hear.

"I think he brought up blood, sir, but _dark blood_, like...coffee grounds or, I don't know. Tarry. I really do think he needs to see a mediwitch," and her eyes meet mine with such worry, that I instinctively open my mouth with the intention of offering some sort of...platitude, perhaps.

I stop when I realize that no pat or cliched response is going to be of much comfort to the girl.

I still can't think of what to say, in all honesty, that could offer much reassurance, either. I'm not a mediwizard. I don't know how ill the boy is, or what the blood means.

Hermione seems to intuit my solitude for what it is, grimly tucking in a corner section of quilt, further encasing me in the blanket.

"The beverage may have helped marginally, as it appears most of the contents were absorbed by his system before becoming ill. It wasn't a bad idea at all, Miss Granger. And he did bring up blood. But bleeding ulcers-, " and Snape stills then, as if realizing his words have amounted to providing the Gryffindor with some basic_ praise_.

From this distance I can see Snape performing yet another diagnostic spell, his features relaxing marginally as he interprets the results.

Coming back towards the two of us, he states briefly that Harry's heart rate has slightly normalized, and his blood glucose readings are no longer in the hypoglycemic range. His core body temperature has also been elevated.

Muttering something about still needing to contact a medi-witch for the duration of the weekend, he quickly departs, leaving the two of us shivering slightly as a gust of cold air streams in from the hallway.

Hermione softly shuts the door behind Snape, glancing back over to me and saying something about_ 'not performing a warming spell for nothing'_ before checking on Harry who has just started moving about, legs sputtering beneath blankets restlessly.

* * *

I watch, quite tiredly, as Hermione transfigures a nearby desk chair into a sleeping cot, before dragging it over to the bed where Harry rests, and placing it flush against the wooden frame. The cot makes - more or less - an extension of the bed itself now, though it's lower and shorter. The placement is rather well thought out: Hermione doesn't want Harry to entertain, even for a moment, the idea that she has rejected him. Yet, she still wants to give him his space, and show respect for his need to be able to occupy his own bed.

As it stands, I know he already feels far too watched, far too examined. And that he hates the sense of having so many aspects of his life, even day to day aspects such as eating or sleeping - overtly analyzed.

**_*You would hate it too...*_**

Hermione then retrieves several more blankets from the nearby storage closet and places additional warming spells on each, before kicking off her shoes and socks, tossing both under the cot, and wiggling down under the duvets. I can't help but smirk at her obvious assumption that she would likewise stay the night.

"What?," she queries cautiously, then sees my smile, guesses my possible retort.

"I'm not leaving him," she begins again, carefully wording her next sentence to sound neither like an order, nor a request... but a statement of fact. As if it's already been decided.

"There's no reason why I have to return to school tonight, and I don't want him to be alone. I _won't leave him alone_."

I refrain from pointing out that Harry is, indeed, not _alone_, but I do suspect that the girl may simply believe me too unwell to stay with her friend until proper transportation can be arranged. Which is true: by morning I'll need fresh wolfsbane, and I will need it on a very tight schedule. She sits up in her small cot then, as if reading my mind.

"Professor Lupin? Harry will be coming back to Hogwarts with us...not tonight, maybe, but soon? Right?"

I glance down at the carefully folded blanket, the turned in portions designed to keep me as warm as possible. Hermione Granger obviously likes to **act **when she feels as if things are out of control, or too intense. She doesn't want to sit back, or be passive. She wants to help. A Gryffindorian trait no doubt, but especially true for her as a person.

"You simply...wanting to stay with him...I think that's going to help Harry a lot, you know. You know...not turning away?" and I willfully drop my voice then, nervous that the object of this discussion will wake up any moment, and be made uncomfortable by the subject matter.

At the same time, that wouldn't be the worst thing, either - for Harry to awaken. There are several key issues I need to discuss with him as soon as possible.

"Do you think, sir, that maybe Ron can come out too? He never seems to be as serious, but maybe that'll be good for Harry? For things to be, I don't know - lighter, perhaps?," and her eyes spark up hopefully.

Something in my gut doesn't find this suggestion too plausible, as Snape is still likely to be the only adult present with either teen until Monday.

And Snape can simply _tolerate _Hermione as it is, and can barely _stand _Harry...so asking if Ron Weasley can come out, as if the weekend was some bizare slumber party, is not going to be a suggestion Snape will accept easily.

"Harry will be heading back to school on Monday; we just have to wait until the next connecting schedule for the trains so that we can get close enough to Hogwarts by rail. I'm sure Professor Snape will allow you to stay, if only so he's not one on one with..."

Her arms fold somewhat disapprovingly.

"_You're_ not staying? I mean, I know you don't feel well, sir. But won't you feel better by Monday?"

I smile, and try to put her at ease, aware the volume of our voices has been increasing in the last few minutes, and it's definitely starting to rouse Harry.

"No - I'll stay. I'll also be in and out over the weekend several times, though I will accompany Harry back on Monday. I give you my word. I don't think you'd want to miss Monday's classes, no?," and the words are said with a forced ease that should indicate that I'm trying to keep things more or less their norm. But Hermione doesn't seem to take them that way.

"I don't care about missing classes on Monday!," Hermione retorts, almost angrily, totally focused now on the boy starting to squirm beside her.

Harry stirs again at her voice, lightly, but even in the barely lit room, I can make out his screwed up features, his twisted mouth, and the new tension with which he holds his blankets in white-fisted bunches.

Hermione sits up on her haunches then, sensing the start up to something...more. Her feet tucked under her knees, I see her hands reach out almost tentatively to stroke away some glossy, sweaty strands of now black-soaked hair, the tendrils having affixed themselves to Harry's forehead. The whine is rapidly progressing into a wail; if he doesn't stop the sounds soon, Snape will be back in this room in two seconds flat.

"_Wake up _Harry," Hermione insists, keeping her voice nothing more than a low rumble, her own features flinching when the boy pulls back as she grasps his shoulder, his retreat so sudden and forceful, it's as if he was burned by her touch.

She tries again a moment later, and then I get up and make my way over, replacing Hermione's hand with my own, and she shrinks back, out of the way. I see her slip her socks back on her feet then, before flittering to the edge of the room, looking uncomfortable.

"Should I leave, sir? For a few minutes?," she begins uncertainly, and I know she's anticipating Harry's response, and undoubtable shame, if he wakes up and comprehends what she's witnessed.

I nod dully, trying not to rouse the small teen from his nightmares until Hermione has fully departed.

"Maybe for a little while, yeah. That might be for the best. I have something issues I need to discuss with him...," and she exhales in understanding, pausing at the door for a moment.

"Let him know that I'm still here though, sir, please? Let him know that I haven't left him - okay?"

I nod, granting her the slightest smile. Because even to smile seems to take an exorbitant amount of energy right now.

* * *

I doze for a bit, falling asleep in the artificially heated room. The temperature, of course, is pleasantly warm, not stifling, so I'm a little confused as to how Harry could still possibly require so many blankets just to feel comfortable. Part of me suspects that it's not just coldness that he's trying to fight off, but a sense of oppression.

**_*He wants some measure of privacy...*_**

A low sound is building in his throat again, as before. It is not unlike the whine of an engine - the sound high pitched in timber, but not necessarily loud.

Not yet.

This time I do, in fact, wake him.

"Harry. Wake up!," I demand, hesitant to touch him, and raising my voice to accomplish the task.

A hand swipes out shrilly, and I hear an intake of breath, before his eyes open rather suddenly, and he takes in his world - disorientated.

**_*At least he awoke rather easily...*_**

I wait for him to reach out for his glasses, but he simply zips up his hoody, scoots up a little in the bed, squinting a bit to transition himself to the light, and then stares down at his lap. I can sense his discomfort, and his attempts to redirect focus and attention away from himself and onto me.

"I, uhh, are you feeling okay, Remus? Shouldn't you be resting?," he asks hesitantly, as if unsure how to even address me.

"Shouldn't we both though, eh? You look positively knackered, my friend."

He gives me a side-smile... a half-lopped grin.

"I didn't, actually, go to bed last night. I just couldn't sleep. I didn't think I'd hear my alarm." He stops to rub his clothed forearms, as if he's trying to heat himself up.

"Freedom from the gulag, is that it?," I can sense he will appreciate the levity. I can sense he doesn't want concerned stares or glances, patiently worded questions, or suggestions that he's somehow..._fragile_, or in need of cautiously phrased comments.

"Yeaaaah," he expels the word in a rush, as if he'd been holding onto the breath for ages and is starved for oxygen. "I_ hated _it there. I didn't want to sleep through my alarm," he reiterates, needlessly, "I'm not a morning person, and-"

He stops talking then, aware of his rambling. Aware of what his rambling _means_.

I switch tactics.

"I don't think staying up all night really...helped...you today, though. Do you? Sleep deprivation can really mess with the mind," and I indicate to my own head, my own purple stained eyes. "Trust me, I've been there, kiddo."

Essentially, I want to give Harry an _in_, an _in_ to discuss what needs to be discussed, with as little awkwardness as possible.

"No, I know you're right," he agrees softly, "I probably should have forced myself to sleep. I was just feeling...all...antsy. Like, like I couldn't fall asleep as much as I tried, I couldn't even _calm down _enough to sleep. I mean, I felt _tired_, but I couldn't _rest. _Not there," he looks up at me cautiously for a moment - his large green eyes boring holes into my own, even half-way across the room.

His face is distractingly free from his omnipresent black spectacles, and for that, he channels his little, child-self. The child I knew as an infant, sans glasses. Just those eyes, and just that brilliant green, focused gaze. I feel the hairs on my neck rise up, as if I've been spooked, as if I've cut through years and years of time to see the little person I knew.

A healthy child - a well one.

_A whole one. Healthy and whole._

"Have you ever been so tired that...you _couldn't _sleep? Like every sound or every single _thing_...just made you feel, I dunno, _unsafe_ or something?"

His cheeks burn at that, bringing a little necessary colour back to his peaked face.

"I don't know what I'm talking about...it's stupid. I'm sorry," he mumbles, all at once fully awake.

He starts again, looking around. "Did...did Hermione leave?," and I almost wish the girl was here, then, to hear that pang of apprehension. That concern that she had, after all, departed. That sound, that slight fear, would have instantly and perhaps for all-time eradicated any of her feelings of being dismissed by Harry, even given the complexity of this situation.

I shake my head. "No, no, absolutely _not_. She was very firm about not going back to school unless you came along," and I see the boy slightly relax, his frame slouching somewhat in relief. "I think she went downstairs to prepare us all some dinner."

"_'Us all'?,_" he says with a note of self-deprecation, under his breath. Insecurity radiates off him in waves, not unlike the heat of the room. Prickly, strong, and disturbing.

I get up and stalk over, coming to rest on the cot, so he can sense my absolute conviction with what I have to say next.

"No - none of _**that**_. Do you hear me? I'll not put up with you berating yourself, even in veiled, subtle ways. This is not your fault, Harry."

"Of course this is _my fault_," he hisses, features scrunching up to take on a look of absolute, undeniable self-hatred. "_Whose _fault would it be? I'm the fucking loser who can't even-," and he stops then, aware of the slipped swearing, the rather raw sound that has creeped into his voice.

"I really tried, in the clinic, you know? I really _am trying_-," and he looks up, over my shoulder, not meeting my eyes. "I mean, I know it seems like I'm _not,_ but I _am_. I just... I can't even explain it. You wouldn't understand why I'm like this, _no matter what I say _because it doesn't even make sense to me! Not really. I know I'm screwed up though, alright? **_I get it_**," he tries again, hotly, the earlier ruse of ease quickly vanishing.

"Look," I start, a little unsure of what I'm going to say or do to make any of this better for him, "I know that you've been trying. Really hard. I also think that you feel completely... torn. That part of you wants to get well, and that part of you wants to stay sick."

I see his throat clench and unclench convulsively at that, as if the words have caused him real internal disorder.

"No, it's not, it's not like it feels like being _sick_. Not when I do it...my way. It feels like-" and he sighs, harshly, "it _feels_ like I'm doing the _right thing_, and getting stronger, and I know that sounds completely stupid or something, but I really like feeling all...hollow, inside. There is something really calming about feeling like that. Like I can rest, or sleep, or - I dunno! And everyone else is forcing me to do something really wrong, really..._ugly..._when they keep me from doing what I need to do!"

"Alright," I start, tentatively, "but just consider, fully, what you're saying. You feel a certain way, you feel calmed by your actions, even though you _know_ they are unhealthy. Couldn't it be simply _because _you know they are unhealthy? Harry, every manner of...calming yourself... that you've employed recently has been entirely self-destructive."

He winces then, actually winces.

"You must have considered that...self-harming is, unquestionably, something that would become noticeable. Something that those who care about you...would pick up on, and also make you face."

"No, Remus, I didn't - I didn't want to get _caught_. I know that sounds awful, like I'm lying to you, like I'm this _horrible person_, but maybe I **_am_**. I mean, I know...I know I'm upsetting you, and Hermione - and it's like, I definitely don't want you guys to be stressed about this, but it's like I really _can't stop_. To stop would be even harder, even though I know it would make everyone happier! So what does that make me, anyway? Maybe that makes me the sort of person who _should_ suffer, and maybe that's why I do want to do this. Because I deserve this, and-"

His breathing is coming out in harsh, rapid lines, pain of unimaginable depths underscoring every word.

"You do NOT deserve this! That assertion is completely illogical - don't you see that? Don't you _sense_ that? And you are not lying to _us_, at all. You've been far more...open...than I could say I'd expect from anyone. No, Harry - it sounds like you're only lying to _yourself_."

He's stopped speaking for the time being, I can tell, having captured a digit in his mouth, and is chomping down hard on the finger, hard enough to draw blood, I suspect. I force myself to quell an instinct to reach out and stop his actions, as that would be the crux of the issue, wouldn't it?

His great fear of being controlled.

Even being pulled back from self-harm, which he still perceives as an unwanted intrusion, the basic demands to take care of himself - all unwanted coercion.

"Because if you didn't want to get caught, if you didn't want for someone...to stop this, to put a stop to this, then the only other alternative explaination is actually far more disconcerting. The only _other_ reason I can conceive of would be...that you were, in fact, gunning for your own destruction."

The nausea from the floo is nothing compared to this churning sensation in my gut right now. When he doesn't say anything, I try again.

"Do you want to continue to listen to those feelings when I know that a very real part of you...understands that these feelings are..._misleading?_ That these feelings are, in a manner of speaking...'lying' to you? Don't you think it's time to put everything into someone else's control, at least until these feelings go away?"

I don't quite catch the mummblings, as he's turned and positioned himself contrary to where I'm seated.

"Come again? I didn't quite catch that, kiddo."

Propping himself up by both spindly arms, he repeats himself, unsure, eyes picking apart patterns on the blanket, studying the geometric lines of the print.

"Nothing else..._works_. Nothing else makes me feel good. Even now...it's like, I don't want you to even..._see me_, look at me. It's like there are all these...awful things there, inside me, and...I _know you _can sense them. And the craziest thing, maybe, is that I feel...really awful and stupid and just...disgusting, really disgusting, for doing all this, for _wanting_ to do this. But then really awful if I don't do it! And for everything else too. The other stuff. All that other horrible stuff. I hate, HATED it and now it's like I _own_ it."

An intake of air, and then, "I'm sorry. I don't want to waste your time, Remus, I'm sorry. I know I'm wasting everyone's time. Snape's. Hermione's. Ron's. Everyone's. But it's... this voice, this voice is always louder than yours - than all of yours put together. And if I don't fix things properly, then I feel as if...as if I can't even _breathe_. I can't even get any air, somehow. Like something inside is building and building. I'm sorry. I know I'm so fucked up, I'm _sorry_..."

His honesty - his need for me to understand, something I cannot _begin_ to understand - is not unlike a slap in the face. A dousing of cold water. But I try anyway.

"Like pressure maybe? Like a valve flooding in too much air; like a balloon, ready to burst?"

"It's like...like pus, in a wound, like **_infection_**. And when you lance it, you know? You know how you feel better after? It's like lancing out all the pus, all the poison. The infection. Getting rid of the bad blood, all the bad blood. That's how it feels when I do all this stuff, see? It's like...getting rid of poison."

Looking back up at Harry I see that he's now biting his lip, afraid of what I might possibly have to say of his analogy.

"I think that makes a lot of sense, actually. I think that's a very...normal...and sane...response. But I also think...some of those feelings were drummed into you by the same family that didn't have the heart to treat even a little child in their care with any decency. Any basic human kindness. The opposite, really. What they did to you was undeniably evil, Harry. And I think some of those feelings come from ideas that they instilled in you, and that if you...indulge those feelings, and keep doing all these things, that they...in some ways, win. Because none of this hurts them; all of this hurts _you_."

I don't feel like speaking right now, so it's all I can manage to get out with any calmness. I'm surprised I manage as much as I do.

In all honesty, I feel like strangling Vernon Dursley. Wrapping my hands around his beefy neck, and just strangling that evil creature until his piggish, purple face turns blue and **_he_** is forced to gasp for air. Forced to experience just a dose, just a small taste, of the panic and misery he's put his nephew through...

"Okay," Harry breathes, nervously. "I'll try, you know - I'll try with dinner. Maybe I'll have just a little bit of dinner, maybe that will be okay? Just a little bit. That will be okay. I can do that..."

It takes a moment to realize that Harry has stopped talking to _me_ half way through - that his words are his attempt at solace, at prepping himself up for the task at hand.

* * *

As it turns out, Hermione has a plan all her own, as well. Apparently she thinks it's far less of a "bother" for Harry and her to eat upstairs, and for myself and Snape to eat downstairs. To give _"Professor Snape some time to himself," _is the comment which the other man overhears as he comes back into the kitchen carrying phials of potions. He snorts in amusement at the rather bare excuse, before assembling half a dozen or so of the little apothecary styled jars on the kitchen counters.

"Your concern for our need for some..._downtime_...is truly admirable, Miss Granger," he says evenly, his voice lacking the typical frostiness that usually destabilizes students.

I stiffle an impulse at that moment, then, to ask if I can additionally join the teens in the heated room, to pull away from the scowling death glares of the other professor.

Hermione collects two large stew bowls then, not meeting my eyes, but not out of shame or tension as would have been the case with Harry. No, the real reason, I suspect, is that she finds the excuse just as weak to her ears and is fighting to maintain a cover look of seriousness.

The girl fills up two bowls with mashed potatoes, stirring a little butter into one quite well, and then sets a gravy boat on the tray, filling the dish with mushroom gravy from a little pan. She then scrummages around in a cardboard box, placing two room temperature cans of something called "Ensure High Calorie" on the tray, along with two separate straws.

"If I drink one, _he'll_ drink one. We have an unspoken agreement," she says softly, to me only, as explaination for the extra straw.

Which of course prompts Snape to reply.

"Well isn't that a gloriously...well thought out little plan! And here I was doubting the correctness of you being a Gryffindor at all! Surely this arrangement is something of Ravenclaw caliber - because _of course_ you should meet Potter calorie for calorie. Then, when he's at a _healthy _weight, you'll be _overweight_..."

"Snape!," I bite out, "leave her alone!" Turning back to Hermione, I give her - _what I hope_ - is a reassuring smile.

"That's very decent of you to take the...sting out of it for him, like this, Hermione. I think it's a good plan, for the immediate. To get him over his anxiety in the short-term. But Professor Snape is right, too: Harry will have to do things he doesn't want to do, that_ can't _be matched, no matter how much you'd like to do that for him."

Plucking the ulcer medication off the kitchen table, and then retrieving a vial of nutrient potion that Snape had just set aside for Harry, with an _'I hope you don't mind look,_' Hermione gives me a lofty eyeing. I suspect I may have, unwittingly, offended her sensibilities.

"I know _that_, sir. But I'll do what I can for him, when I can do it. And I can do _this_, so-," a slight glare towards Snape, then, who unbelievably sees the unmasked glare - something as withering as the worst of his own, but intelligently fails to comment - before turning on her heels and bounding from the room.

"Impertinent little chit," I hear him mumble under his breath, glancing over the modest meal of creamed corn, mashed and scalloped potatoes, and mushroom gravy... with a look of disdain. I can almost hear the criticism running through his mind, scathing and unfair. It's not as if the girl had anything_ fresh_ to work with, and given the random assortment of tinned and packaged goods, the meal looks quite good, in all actuality.

More than that - it's simple fare, easy enough to digest, and try as she might to appear to have our interests at heart, her motivations for cooking what she did really center on a single messy-haired boy, and what would be best for him alone.

Turning back to my colleague, whilst helping myself to the ever cooling pan of muggle-styled mashed potatoes, I say as evenly as possible, "You shouldn't have said that. To Hermione. You know what teenage girls are like. Do you want to deal with two teens who have eating issues?"

Snape all but scoffs at my suggestion, serving himself a moderate portion of the scalloped potatoes, retrieving a pot of black coffee from the element, and arranging his place setting before holding up the pot in an unvocalized query as to whether I'd like a cup of the dark roast.

I nod, oddly touched by the gesture - the relative thoughtfulness of the man who almost always aims for an aura of great displeasure with every other human on earth. Fiddling with a recently bottled vial of wolfsbane, I almost consider that..._thoughtless _isn't really a correct descriptor of Snape. Until he next speaks.

"From a single comment? Don't be blasted daft! Miss Granger, for all her annoying tendencies, is far too level-headed for that sort of nonsense, Lupin."

"Most likely so, though please tell me your stubborn mind _can_ comprehend the fact that first appearances can be deceiving. I mean, for the length of time you've known Harry, you've forever bemoaned the fact that you think he's...arrogant, _over-confident_. When the truth is, the kid doesn't want to be noticed at all! Can't you see how...unquestionably wrong you've been about him? About his nature?"

Taking delicate nibbles as one would expect from a Malfoy, or one Pureblood raised, he continues on as if he has not heard me, flippantly making some sort of 'hidden' threat that if I have such verve for speaking at such a time, that I really must not be _"in such dire need of wolfsbane at all."_

This time, I'm the one doing the glaring.

* * *

**A/N:** advancements, yes!

Of course, it's always a two steps forward, one step back sort of deal with recovery. Especially recovery from an eating disorder. So while we are about half-way through with the story now, the tone of things will probably start to sway into the more...hopeful arena as we progress.

Next chapter will be from Harry's POV - heading back to Hogwarts, getting readjusted.

Anyway, reviews are love. So if you have _anything_to say, anything constructively critical, or just even random passing thoughts, please hit that review button and leave me a note. :-)

**For the record:** a Ron themed chapter, _and_a Ginny themed chapter are to follow shortly. I've never been one to really be able to get into the mental head-space of Ron, or Ginny either, really. So I'm probably going to take a little extra time with those, to get the mind 'voice' a little more authentic.


	21. What Good Remains

**Chapter 21** – What Good Remains

* * *

**Snape's POV**

* * *

Lupin retires early, black circles shadowing his eyes even moreso than the blackness shadowing his mood.

He reaches towards my plate of nearly consumed potatoes and leftover mushroom gravy, indicating with his hand that he will collect my dishes alongside his own, if I am finished with the meal. I nod, then walk to the fridge and retrieve his last dose of wolfsbane for the evening while my colleague balances the two sets of dinnerware in an _utterly _precarious fashion. I hold my breath, almost waiting for the crash that seems inevitable, and, indeed wince as the items drop with resounding clamor into the lemon frothed sink.

**_*Apparently unbroken, he says...*_**

I do my best to glower at the oak table as I ready the last batch of medication for the infuriating _creature_. Comments never seem to change the actions of others, no matter the impeccable logic fueling their utterance.

And then, out of the relative quiet, again, comes noise.

"I do appreciate...you know, _all _of this Severus. I know you don't really...are not...," Lupin seems to grasp for his words, before rushing forth with the rest of his musing, "well, I know you don't _like_ Harry. But still, all the same - _because of that_, _maybe..._thank you."

Something acerbic and truly...**_mean_**... blossoms in my mouth, begging to be borne. A hasty, angry retort. I stifle it quickly, far too tired to get into any argument relating to my so-called _'lack of affection'_ for Dumbledore's Golden boy.

"I do not _hate _the boy, Lupin. That in itself should be sufficient explanation for any assistance offered, when needed," and I rise, taking over the washing of the cutlery. "Besides...the child is so obviously _ill_...that if any professor requested assistance in such a case...it would simply be part and parcel of my duties as head-of-house to assist."

"But McGonagall's _Harry's_ head-of-house and...and...you didn't have to offer the assistance..."

The asinine, most-_obvious _words trail off into thundering silence, and I smirk, before proceeding.

"_Any _child - any Hogwart's student - regardless of house placement... ANY child similarly disturbed would _warrant the assistance_, Lupin. From whomever most capable of providing it at that particular time. Or do you _disagree_?"

And then somewhat unpredictably a fresh course of anger sails to my heart as I hear the affirmations of the smaller man, as I hear the weak _"Yeah" - _the weak and soft acceptance of what I've just said.

Soft and pained, and almost resigned, _yes_ - but not what I'd expect from a _Gryffindor _regarding one of their own.

**_*What I WOULD expect is anger - or even outrage - at my lack of 'sensitivity.' And the man agrees with me?*_**

My next emotion - pity, maybe even_ empathy_, for Potter of all people! - is swiftly tackled and pushed aside. Refocusing helps fresh ire to bubble to the surface as I contemplate the _daftness_ of the man before me...

_***Imbecile...trying to clean the items by hand!...***_

I take over the chore in a beat, ushering forth a _'scourgify' _and irritably removing magicked forks and spoons and plates from the needless water as I do so, each item gloriously clean within seconds. I give Lupin a look, not quite so irritated any longer; not quite_ anything_, really, other than tired and out-of-sorts and disconcerted by what I've been privy to witness today.

**_*And by what Potter's actions mean within a larger context...*_**

"Ahh," he looks down then, ginger smile tugging at his mouth, "the potion is wonderful, really Snape. But...," and he indicates towards his heart, before I growl. I can see his raggedy breaths - as if anemic.

For even with Wolfsbane coursing through his system, preventing the otherwise automatic progression towards the lycanthropic state, the condition still wreaks havoc on the body. No potion in the world totally quells the condition, and so rapidity of pulse and general nausea from overexertion can make even the simplest spell that much more draining than a simple muggle alternative. Like handwashing dishes as opposed to _scourgify_ charms.

Magic **_does_** tap the core, in the immediate.

"I'll finish here," I indicate to the paltry few items remaining while hearing his slightest _'I'll check on the kids, then,' _and the soft padded retreat that follows _- _his response in lieu of an obvious, and appropriate,_ 'goodnight.' _

* * *

I'm not surprised when he doesn't come back down as the pre-arrangement was that Lupin would bunk in another room on the third floor, checking in on Granger and Potter before they, obviously, went to sleep. Given his _undeniably superior hearing and scent _at this time of his cycle -this would also ensure he'd be the likely party called upon to put a stop to any situations Potter Jr. could possibly generate before dawn, additionally.

**_*Which suits *me* just fine...*_**

My arrangement is a little different. The understanding is that I will 'rest' on a transfigured cot; given what I've seen occur today, I'm not counting on an undisturbed evening - so I've taken to manning the ground level, for any unlikely - but _possible _- exterior ward breaching. Or, (and far more likely) any interior _Potter breaching_.

**_*If that whelp so much as attempts to traipse down here for any untoward reason, I'm going to...*_**

I redirect my aggression away from Potter - away from the child far sicker than any other I've ever come across - almost immediately. And try not to contemplate how even in the depth of his despair and troubles, he can still manage to press all my buttons so effectively.

I conduct a cursory _'praecoxa dolorem' _spell over the residence at that thought. Finding nothing amiss, I re-conceal my wand before attempting a most dubious sleep.

* * *

At no _later_ than quarter to _three in the bloody morning_, the evesentia orb that I set earlier in the evening is activated to its distinct and bloody red alert status. The light, so discomforting a colour as I've witnessed during spy periods and death eater hordes, alerts me even _before_ the soft whooshing hum of the alarm, an alarm which is attuned to my own magical signature.

In the most exasperated manner, I quickly re-encase myself in my outer robe, shoes_ already _tied, wand _already_ in place.

**_*Damn it, Lupin! Take better care of your charge!*_**

The man may be exhausted, but given the rigors and lack of sleep of the last few days, my own energy level is _also _rapidly plummeting, and Lupin's insistence to take the closest room to the teen's was, supposedly, for this reason. So that HE would be the first responder. Not I.

I have no clue why whatever is..occurring...**isn't **alerting the _bloodhound _of the Order; evidently my "paranoid precautions" as he so arrogantly refered to them earlier on have not been quite so _paranoid _after all...

Yet, by the time I reach the third floor, I come upon a landing of...appearing _calm_. Dark, drowsy night. No bedroom lights flickering. No sound.

Walking with deliberate softness, I press - slightly - against the first doors' edge, slowly easing it open before surveying the nearly blackened landscape.

After a brief moment, while my eyesight adjusts to the lack of ambient magical light, I find the picture before me clearing as moonlight cascades in over the single bed, illuminating the form of the man - utterly still, his breathing consistent - indicative of deep sleep.

I again, cautiously, close the door before venturing further down the landing. Now the warning - pulsing from the red evesentia - is **insistent**, and it drones along with my own magical rhythm, the alarm silent to all but myself. The thrum of the evesentia is truly disconnected, and unique; yet it flows directly to my brain in a pulsing of undeniable urgency, like ice cold water surging through a vein.

Fear cast aside for a much more usable emotion - that of controllable _vexation_ - I take larger steps towards the second bedroom, opening the door in a less considerate fashion, not so concerned now with who I do or do not wake.

Again, though, the picture before me is a near-duplicate: the occupants of the room are still, and from my angle, the girl's hair swirls in messy ringlets over top her purple muggle pillow, her body also consistently rising and falling with the patterns of deep sleep. And Potter, too, his form still, his hoody...

_***But no movement. Nothing obvious...***_

With rapidity faster than apparition I'm there - _there! _- at the bed, covers drawn, black hoody in view, packed with clothes and more clothes, turned in the bed.

A fool's _dummy_.

**_*When I find him...!-*_**

With a sense of heightened, instinctive urging, I cast a _'mufflato' _over the region of airspace connecting the teens' bedroom from the larger whole of the building, before shutting the door more firmly than I had with Lupin's. And hopefully, in the process, eliminating all light, sound or motion from distracting Miss Granger...

**_*The last thing I need is another child up, belligerent and distracting...*_**

Finally taking to the fourth floor, I again pause, trying to focus on the sounds of the landing, but again I hear nothing. New unbridled alarm starts to ebb at the corners of my consciousness and I almost turn back to wake Lupin before I pick on the almost undetectable swirling faintness of _'silencio'-_d water.

The door, of course, is locked; the bathroom is cast in _complete darkness,_ this particular room never having been outfitted with a window like the bedrooms.

I utter a _'lumos' _before a louder and more insistent **_"Potter!," _**and lastly remove the casted_ 'silencio' _that the boy has placed on this room itself. Abruptly, the sounds of a raging shower fill my head, fill the air - the torrential nature of the blast discordant with the utter chill of the room.

"Potter - _answer me!," _I restate, rapidly seeking out evidence for the state of the boy beneath the curtain.

**_*No clothes. No wand... He - he's...*_**

And with fear for the blasted boy's actual _safety _trumping any inhibitions I would otherwise have against throwing back the curtain on a showering teen (on _Harry Potter no less_!), I do just that, my eyes shifting back and forth with a frozen - almost unseeing sight as my wand trains its small offering of _LUMOS_ light on the small, shrouded figure before me.

The obviously _clothed_ figure is still at present - the garments all taking on the same charcoal black indistinctness, like a blackened in shape of a boy... the excessive hood portion of the muggle attire completely blocking the boy's face from my line of sight.

The refractory droplets of the still-surging spray land against my chest and arms then, immediately soaking my robes and freezing my body.

I scramble to turn off the jet, alarmed by the sheer chill of the stream, and end the cascade of flowing ice water almost immediately. It is then that I hear the slight hiccoughing sobs of the boy, still so soft as to still be little more than imagined.

Not knowing where to start, and not feeling anything remotely similar to comfortable anger, I cast a drying spell, centering the force of the spell on the core of the boy's body. Of course, the garments are quite damp, even after several moments of concerted effort. It is then that I realize the child's frame is _shaking._

**_*No doubt the blasted boy is in a state of hypothermia!*_**

I continue for several moments and then cautiously reach out towards the cuff of the garment, attempting to discern the relative dampness of the clothing. Doing so, unfortunately, causes Harry to jerk out of my grasp, towards the wall, his hands coming to softly tap against his sodden little legs, the pants still damp - clinging to his skeletal frame.

Not attempting to retouch the boy, I carry on for several more minutes until the trembling becomes noticeably less pronounced.

The rocking too - that godawful sickening _rocking_- has also stilled somewhat, but the cloaked head has come to rest now on knees, stick arms hugging the underside of his body, crushingly so, face smashed into barely dried fabric. The room is now almost completely silent save for the occasional shudder-exhalation.

Feeling somewhat assured that nothing _horrible_ has befallen the boy, other than foolishly weakening his already compromised body by sitting in an _idiotic ice shower _for Merlin-knows-how-long, I turn once more towards him, struggling with my emotions. In fact, I'm finding it unduly difficult to _speak - _the teen obviously in need of continued emotional assistance by any other caregiver than myself.

"What are you _THINKING_? What were you _**doing**?," _I exclaim at last, the words hissed in soft hurried breath as a wave of tremulous relief fills my limbs and makes me feel unnaturally weak. "It's almost_ three in the morning,_ Mr. Potter!"

When I receive absolutely **_no _**response, I instruct the boy to stay where he is, completely immobile, and warn against leaving while I fetch Lupin to examine him...

A request which bizarrely generates _much more _of a response than anything previously uttered as he lets out a frustrated, almost _angry_ cry, slamming his already injured hand back into the wall, clawing at his hoody to continually hide his face with the other.

"STOP THAT **RIGHT** _NOW_!," and I grab the arm, effectively stopping all action, holding it up and away from the marble tile, applying more force to the wrist than the hand itself, not wishing to cause him pain.

_"No! No one. **Leave me alone**!" _The sound so jaggedly sickened and _upset _- as if I had ordered the boy to the gallows.

Tugging back on his wounded arm frantically in an attempt to retrieve it from my grasp, I lower my voice, willing the shocked sound of disbelief to depart before speaking.

"You hit that hand against ANY surface - even_ yourself_, Harry - just ONE more time and I _GUARANTEE_ that _not only will I get Professor Lupin up here in two seconds flat_, but I'll have him examine you for injuries in a **_blasted BODY BIND_**. UNDERSTOOD?"

The raven head slumps forward exhausted into a wheezed-out acceptance.

"Alright. _Out_ of the tub," and my temper is starting to flare at the child's audacity - that messy, arrogant head swirling back and forth, the hair itself still damp, as he defies me yet again.

"GET _OUT_, Mr. Potter."

Again, nothing. If anything, he stops all communications - his entire body curling up into a ridiculously small ball, furtive hands coming to swipe away at eyes obviously tearing, but still shielded by the ridiculous garment.

_"No?,"_ I query in silky disbelief, somewhat jarred by seeing the frail head sway back and forth so frantically, the small fingers, the enlarged joints of the knuckles - clench and unclench, the piteous moaning just under the surface.

The clenching - faster now.

"_No!," _I hear the boy exclaim a little louder, as I rise to fulfill my threat.

"I am **NOT** dealing with anymore of this...truly **_disturbed behavior_**, Mr. Potter. Do you think this is a **_game?_** What -_ pray tell _- would _possess you _to leave your room, leave the floor, cast a _silencio_ and then sit -_ fully clothed _- in an ungodly _frigid shower _until you induced hypothermia? Do you think *I* have any conception of how to deal with your..._a_ctions?"

Again, no response - and so I finally reach forward, securing the boy around the waist, all to the tangled screaming that thereby erupts as I pull Harry out of the tub once and for all.

"That's it. _OUT! _I've had enough of your tantruming about like an infant, POTTER! I'll examine you myself!"

**_"Noooo! _LEAVE ME _ALONE!"_**

"**STOP SHOUTING**! Do you _WANT_ Miss Granger up here, too? Is that it? Not getting enough attention from one harried professor? Is your need for attention so grand that you-?"

I suspiciously reign in my temper, catching a stuttered**_ 'don't!'_** as I drop my voice but reach for his shirt - all at once thankful I placed a secure _silencio_ around the bedroom shared by the teen.

**_"Noo. No one," _**comes the voice again, so pathetically young and torn. **_"No one."_**

"**You have no choice IN THIS MATTER. **And Professor Lupin is far better equipped to handle these...**_episodes_**. It is frankly...my _incredulity at your sickness _that's keeping me-"

And at that - the sickeningly slight body furls in upon itself, water continuing to pool across the bone-white tiles, leaving a trail...

Leaving a pool...

**_*Oh...oh no...*_**

It is at this moment that I fully - **_finally_** - comprehend the trail for what it is, that the door forcefully opens, and a _'nox-silencio' _is rasped out by Lupin - his face contorted in incredulous pallor, his look one of distraught... understanding.

"What - _WHAT_ is going _on_?," he starts slowly, yet with greater firmness than I can ever recall having heard uttered by the man.

"**_Harry_**?," and he flicks on the lights, illuminating the boy crouching off under the porcelain sink, arms wrapped in juvenile fear over his eyes, swirling pink and red escorting his movements as he frantically pushes the both of us away.

"Snape?," Lupin croaks, horrified. "He's _bleeding_!," and for one staggering moment I make connection with Potter - the boy's green eyes becoming so strangely haunted that I take to side-stepping away from him, a feeling of repulsion at what he's done to himself washing over me.

"I found him in the shower - an ice cold shower. I did not want to wake the entire household over a _showe__r_," I start, knowing how lame the words sound - even to myself. "I did not know he was _bleeding_. He _did_ hit his hand..."

"No, this isn't from him hitting his hand, " Lupin starts, his eyes oblate and dilated and...knowing.

"_Harry_," Lupin tries again - voice cracking in such depleted fatigue, "kiddo..._whatever _you are thinking right now - if you're thinking that you are in _trouble,_ you're **_wrong_**. Alright? _Harry? You're not in trouble. _But you do have to speak to me, kiddo. I'm not going away."

The soft hiccoughed mewling sound is back at that ...no words intelligible.

* * *

"I - I will retrieve a _calming draught_," I supply, my voice coming out more snidely than intended - the tone more habitual than deliberate as I take in the ruddy red-brown blood that smears the area where the boy is huddled.

The last sounds I hear are the whispered queries of Remus Lupin and the sound of a zipper being pulled. And then - more faintly than anything else coming before it...the _very _last sound I hear is that of Harry Potter professing apology, his voice a tirade of **_'m'sorrree's' _**rushing forth before the words become nonsensical. Muffled, _muted_ - and I realize that Lupin has just re-casted yet _another '_silencio' to make the subsequent dialogue completely private.

And then, before the door closes...my eyes catch it: that flash of light, that quick illumination of light on something very reflective, not unlike a snitch, and more seeking reveals...

**Potter's glasses:** the wire frame almost comically bent, the glass portions raggedly ejected from their previous home, the speckled drop of glass on tile as Lupin pries open those far-too childlike hands. And the eerie silence of broken glass that doesn't make a sound as it hits the cold floor dropping more red in its wake.

A drizzle of bright red rain, and not a sound at all.

* * *

**A/N: **this is the 'crux' stage for Harry. From here on out, the chapters will be getting considerably less tense, and there _is light _at the end of the tunnel for our poor boy! Two promises for the upcoming chapter:** a)** Ron and _Ginn__y_ will make an appearance, and **b) **Harry will **_not_** be returning to Hogwarts just yet (nor will he be going to any clinic, muggle or magic).


	22. An End

**Chapter 22** – An Ending

* * *

**Ron's POV - _Two days Later_**

* * *

It's about 5 bloody thirty in the morning when the wind up muggle alarm clock that Hermione gave me for Christmas starts going barmy. Seriously... mental barmy! Not wanting to damage the thing, I just shake it up and down.

Nothing.

"Turn that off, eh mate?," Neville gripes drowsily, his voice louder than typical, his eyes squinting in pain as he blocks his ears with his pillow.

"I don't know HOW to, Nev! Damn thing's not turning off!"

Neville turns around and just stares at me then, as if _I've_ said something barmy. No. More like..._glares_ at me, his eyes furrowing together into two small brown beads, a little angry pucker between his eyebrows.

He stomps out of the bed then - barefoot and groggy, and holds his hand out for the blasted frog clock. Squinting at the thing, the sound way higher than what would be required to wake up even a deaf muggle, I'm sure, he flips the clock over and peers at the underside. Sighing, he pushes something indistinct on the back.

Immediately, the room is full of calm.

Of course, my ears still ring with a weird humming aftershock.

"Thanks!"

Neville sighs, almost inaudibly, and mumbles something about how I need to learn how to work the clock or else he might just chuck it out the window next time.

Which doesn't sound like Neville at all, really, but I guess having the blasted thing go off like a noise bomb so early in the morning has got to be a bit of a pain for anyone.

Glancing over, I smirk - amused at Dean, who is still out in _la-la land_. Seriously - if the two of us didn't douse him in water practically every morning he'd _always_ miss Potions!

Feeling my eyes start to slide back on me, I pull the comforter back up to my chin, telling myself '_10 more minutes_.'

I really, really wish I knew how to work the thing. I really do...

* * *

When I wake up again, everything is calm. I immediately can tell that Neville has shut the window against the cold, and everyone is out of bed. Neville's bed is pin-cushion neat, or something muggle-ish like that...and Dean's covers trail on the ground.

And neither of them are in the room.

I moan into my pillow before reaching over and glancing at the clock, knowing I'm not going to like what I see.

_7:42 am_

Crap, crap - how did 10 minutes come to equal_ two hours?_

I know I should brush my hair, but the elves start to clear the breakfast trays at five to 8, and breakfast really_ is _my favorite meal.

So I really don't get ready properly at all...just throw on my school outfit, throw on my cloak, and race to the great hall. If I'm lucky, I might be able to salvage something small and eat it on the way to Potions class.

* * *

I don't even bother sitting down...just scan my eyes across the reams of plates of mash potatoes and scrabbled eggs and waffles and fruit...and finally grab two buttered pieces of toast before the elves take the last of it away. Not even 8, and they already are disapparating the stuff! It's criminal!

And while two buttered pieces of toast are far from an ideal breakfast, at least it will keep my stomach from grumbling in my most-detested class of all time. Sighing, I chew at the crust convincing myself that the meager food will tide me over until lunch. But there really is no shortage of food then - it's not like I can't make up for missing breakfast later. Although I'm hungry now...so I almost literally inhale the bread, the butter - really wishing I had some treacle tart of taffy pudding or spotted dick or_ something _good to go with it. I also scan the rows for Harry, Hermione. I was so out-of-it tired the other day, I can't for the life of me recall if he came back last night. His bed looked...undisturbed, but that's really not too surprising these days.

Harry had been rivalling Neville for clean-freakishness for the last while anyway. He could have been there for most of the night, and I'd never know.

Trying to recall if I saw him, or any of his stuff when I awoke at 5, I continue eating the bread, savoring the oily butter, the saltiness against the crispiness of the toast. And I'm a little shocked and disappointed when it's gone...because it really seems to be gone too soon.

I'm broken out of my dissapointed realizations by Ginny - who, unlike me, looks washed and presentable.

"THERE you are! I've been looking all over for you! Did you sleep in?," she eyes me warily then shakes her head in exasperation while I brush toast crumbs off my cloak and tie, "Dumbledore wants to see us in his office. He has something he wants to discuss with us."

She sounds so calm, and I marvel at how that can be - because calmness and Ginny don't really go hand-in-hand. I shoulder my satchel, glaring at the bag as it almost knocks me off balance. Really...do they have to make these texts so thick? It's not like we can go through ALL these spells in one day. Certainly many...smaller, _portable-without-breaking-your-back_ editions would be possible.

"Need help?," and then I catch it, a look, the Ginny-has-a-secret-she-doesn't-want-me-to-know look.

"Giiiin...," I growl, trying to sound intimidating and old-brotherish, but she doesn't seem to waver. "What are you hiding?," I finish sweetly.

She looks around for a second, as if trying to decide how to tell me something important. As if she doesn't know how to begin.

"Hermione's back," she says bluntly. But the way she says it...she doesn't look happy. "Lupin too. And Potions is cancelled."

It's not what she says that concerns me. It's what she _doesn't _say. She doesn't say that Snape is back. Obviously he's not, and that's the reason for the cancellation. And most importantly...she doesn't say that _Harry's_ back. And in my heart of hearts, I knew that he hadn't returned.

"Dumbledore wants to talk to us about Harry," I start numbly, "and SNAPE - the git - is still with him? So it can't be good."

* * *

A little known fact is that magical children can have problems like muggle kids. I think, in the muggle world, they give the conditions all sort of confusing names. Melancholia becomes depression, manic depression. Melancholic dreaming becomes "suicidal ideation" in their world. And according to Hermione, muggles have doctors - like Harry's in the hospital (and also different types of doctors that treat bones that break or general wounds - sort of like Madame Pomfrey. In the magical world, it doesn't happen that often, but if someone becomes very sick with melancholia, they are sometimes taken to clinics like St. Mungo's and treated by special healers. It is a job for a special type of healer...one that has different training to Pomfrey, which is why Harry probably wasn't allowed to stay at Hogwarts at all...wasn't treated by Madame Pomfrey.)

And a little known fact about Snape? He is a master potionier who sometimes provides some of the bigger hospitals in the magical areas with their potions for stopping melancholia, acedia. All the other related conditions. Which I find almost hilarious, because if there was one person in the world who could trigger a big bout of melancholia for me - it'd be Snape.

But now, following Ginny up the gargoyle staircase, I can't help but consider this fact. The fact that Lupin was weaker, and Snape was the potions master for the clinics that treat...people like Harry. People who get sick...like Harry.

And that makes me feel jittery and weak because if Harry's not back and Snape is the one who stayed behind with him - it must mean he's still really sick. In his head, as Hermione has said. Head-sick - which scares me, because there is no knowing how long that of sickness will take to get over. I mean, look at Neville's parents. They are nothing like what they were. And that thought scares me beyond everything else. The idea that I'll lose my friend, even if he's still physically here. If barely.

* * *

Dumbledore calls us in warmly, and his voice is all genial charm as he offers us a muggle assortment of "licorique allsorts." I take a handful, still hungry from missing breakfast. Ginny rolls her eyes and declines.

Our headmaster turns to me first, face smiley and open, although his eyes are troubled. Like grey storm clouds passing over an otherwise blue-blue sky, I notice, before turning to scan the room. It's then that I see Hermione curled up like a kneazle in one of Dumbledore's over sized chairs. There's not a lot of light in the room - the window curtains are drawn, and a soft glowing orb of some sort ripples incandescently, illuminating Hermione's face from this angle. But even from the distance, and even with her eyes closed, I can see swollen-ness, puffiness around her closed eyes, her face otherwise pale.

"Mr. Weasley...we missed you at breakfast," Dumbledore starts gently.

I'm starting to understand the enormity of Harry's actions in starving himself. _Everyone _is going to be watched now. Even those of us, like myself, that have always liked our good food a great deal and have detested the word diet from the get-go. Not like Harry was dieting, truly, but even so...

I brush off his concerns with a wave, and finish swallowing an all-sort, before asking, "it looks like she's been crying."

No point in flat out denying the obvious. And I hate being the last one to know things.

Dumbledore turns to Hermione, still curled in sleep, and sighs.

"She has been, " he tries again, "Miss Granger - normally so stoic. But I can't say I'm surprised - a lot is at stake right now. A lot has happened."

I swallow down a lump in my throat, the all-sort lodging itself, refusing to budge.

"Water?," I croak, embarrassed, and Dumbledore pauses before giving me one of his classic understanding-smiles. He gets up and comes back a few moments later proffering some pumpkin juice in a large goblet.

He certainly keeps his rooms well-stocked.

I take a sip, almost cautiously, as if testing whether anything will pass, and lay out the remaining candies on my cloak before I swallow some more, suddenly thirsty.

"Shouldn't we take her back to her dorm?," I try, uneasily, not really wanting to get into a discussion with Hermione in the room. Not when Hermione has been the one crying in front of our Headmaster. The thought alone sort of fills me with dread.

"In a minute," Dumbledore concedes, before rising and slowly making his way over to Hermione, rousing her gingerly. "Miss Granger?"

Hermione wakes pretty suddenly, and the tell tale signs of exhaustion are more apparent now than before. She looks...woozy, rubs her eyes a little, the motion so child-like and cute that my heart swells with affection before I register again the reasons for her fatigue.

"M'mm, sorry," she begins, then seems to realize I'm in the room, "where were you, Ron? We waited all morning - all through breakfast for you!"

I give a small half-smile. "I slept in. I couldn't figure out how to change the settings on that alarm click you gave me."

"Alarm _clock_," Hermione mutters, with minimal insistence. She's obviously still very tired.

"Well," Dumbledore claps his hangs together, "I wanted to talk with you, Mr. Weasley - Miss Weasley," and he indicates to Ginny. "Because we have some things we have to decide pretty soon. Some hard choices to make in the next few days."

"Concerning Harry," I stress, something in my stomach bottoming out.

Dumbledore looks grim.

"Yes, concerning Harry," he agrees. "And one of the options does...have to do with your family."

The man is usually a little less round-the-bush.

"What about?," I try, wanting to know what's going on, the anxiety building.

Dumbledore sighs, lightly, barely, but I hear it.

"We don't think it's a good idea for Harry...to return to school right now. You know why, Miss Granger. I suspect, you know in part, Mr. Weasley."

That irks me. Just a little.

"I'm sure I know as much as Hermione!"

Dumbledore shakes his head sourly, passing a fleeting look to Mione.

"No, no, I don't think so. Miss Granger...I know you wanted to wait for Mr. Weasley before we...talked about everything."

I can see Ginny stirring, and it occurs to me that I've never...actually...let her in on what was wrong with Harry. I've sort of insinuated stuff. Not out-right said anything though, so I turn to my sister suddenly trying to gauge where she's at, emotionally. I mean, this is Harry we are talking about. The kid she has had a crush on since she's been 10 years old.

"What did they tell you?," I ask her suddenly, needing to know - and it comes out like a demand.

Ginny sort of fidgets then, the move uncharacteristic as my sister is pretty bold. Most things don't derail her. She wouldn't have really made it through as the youngest, and the only girl, otherwise.

"Just that...Harry...wasn't eating. He was _preventing_ himself from eating."

She doesn't looked that shocked with the information.

"How long did you know, Ginny? Because I'm pretty sure you never _once_ visited him in the hospital!"

Ginny pales a bit then, before looking away guiltily.

"We are getting off topic," Dumbledore tries again a moment later, but not unkindly. "In a sense we are, anyway," he amends and turns to look at Ginny questioningly.

"Why _didn't _you go and see Harry, Miss Weasley? Certainly you knew Harry was...sick. Why did you avoid him?"

Hermione seems on edge too, watching my sister with even greater intensity, if at all possible.

Ginny makes a sort of frustrated motion with her hands, trying to gather her thoughts and turn them into something intelligible.

"I...I didn't think he **_wanted_** to see me. I didn't think he was mad at me, but he HAD been avoiding me. I didn't want to make things worse..."

She looks ill.

Hermione, on the other hand, looks conflicted, angry, sad, understanding, frustrated. I've never known a girl to channel so many emotions, to school them into discrete units, so that each emotion is at once instantly recognizable individually when you look at her. But Hermione can do it, and always has been able to, and in a sense - because of it - she's sort of an open book.

"He needed you Ginny," she starts, a little tersely, her wavy hair looking brushed, but otherwise far fuller and less managed than would be typical in the morning.

"I...he seemed nervous around me. I thought if something was wrong...if he was doing something wrong to...you, know, to himself...that he wouldn't want me to know."

Hermione seems to kick into gear then,"But you're his FRIEND. He needed someone to call him on it! If someone is hurting themselves..."

"I KNEW you knew," Ginny interrupts, "I knew you knew, I knew he was getting help, I knew I couldn't do anything!"

"Do anything?," I sputter, "don't you think...whatever is going on...you should have visited him? That maybe he's taking it personally, you not even going to see him once, Ginny?"

"He DIDN'T want me around! He wouldn't even look at me! So you know what...considering I knew you and Hermione and Snape and Lupin - and even you, headmaster! - since I knew you were all involved already, and he obviously didn't want me-"

"This isn't ABOUT you. This is about HIM. And his need for our support!," I try again, suddenly angry with my sister.

Dumbledore holds up a hand, and I still.

"Anger can replace fear very quickly, Mr. Weasley. I don't think you are as angry with Ginny as you think. You're just worried, I take it?"

I want to punch the chair, or chuck the candies at my headmaster, or do something impulsive and immature and aggressive.

"No doubt," I bite, then add, "so just go on then. Why keep us in suspense?"

In another time, another situation, I'd have been reprimanded by my mother for such rudeness. But right now, it doesn't seem to matter. Not to me, certainly not to Dumbledore.

Ginny is impossibly quiet, but I can see her mouth sort of screw up as if she wants to keep saying something, but then keeps stopping herself from talking. I mean, I know she has a crush on him - on Harry. And I know, deep down, I have one on Hermione. And I'm trying to consider, right now, how I'd feel if someone told me Hermione was doing to herself what Harry has been doing to himself. How I'd respond. Would I yell at Hermoine? Shake her for being stupid? Probably not. But would I try to hug her? Try to kiss her? I don't know how I'd process the emotions, I don't know...

_would I cry?_

Probably.

Hermione begins, breaking the awful silence that has descended upon us.

"He...Harry, Gin...," she stops, bats her hands in little fists against her knee, as if nervous, then carries on, "Harry has a lot of problems, Ginny. I think...some of the problems are in his mind. I think they've been there for awhile."

"Like what?," Ginny begins, at long last when Hermione pauses - obviously waiting for input.

Hermione seems to falter for a second, as if she isn't sure how to continue.

"His family...they were very...cruel. They were abusive, Ginny. In many different ways."

"How did they hurt him?," my sister whispers. It's the question I want answered too. I know a little. I don't think I know everything.

"They...they punished him in really...disturbing ways, Gin. They didn't want to take care of him, but felt...forced, so even though he may not remember a lot, he can remember enough. And it started when he was little. He was...hurt physically, sometimes. Hit...sometimes with nothing but hands, fists...but sometimes...with items. Paddles or belts. Sticks. I know he was burned once."

I didn't know that. I push down a wave of nausea.

"His aunt-," and Hermione's voice trembles, "burnt him with an iron once. On the backside of his legs. I...saw the marks. At the clinic. He told me. He _wanted_ to tell me," she finishes sickly, stressing the word wanted.

"He wanted to talk about that?," I croak, feeling disgusted. Merlin, I don't even want to hear about it. I can't imagine wanting to talk about it.

"I think he needed to talk about it, Ron," Hermione says, getting out of the chair, coming closer to sit with the three of us, now obviously awake. "To keep it bottled in...it was poisoning him. He's so...hurt inside, so angry, so..."

She takes a deep breath.

"You know how they kept him...locked up? Sometimes?"

Dumbledore flinches at this, as if he knew. As if he knew and feels guilty.

Ginny, on the other hand looks torn.

"I...sort of. I knew they...punished him sometimes by keeping him someplace small. He said something like that last winter, after he had drank-," she stops, looks at Dumbledore, looks alarmed at what she almost admitted.

Hermione dismisses her worry,"It's okay, Ginny. The headmaster doesn't...care so much about that right now. He just...we...we just need to talk about this, because Harry won't probably bring this up again - it was hard enough for him the first time - and he's going to need some extra help right now."

Ginny looks pale and out of sorts.

"What else?," she asks.

"They...would...he told me in the clinic that sometimes they would do things to him, to scare him, to punish him. Keep him in the bathtub, keep the water cold. Hurt him like that."

Ginny looks like she's on the verge of crying, her face screwed up like it used to once the twins teased her to the point of exhaustion.

"He...he didn't know how to deal with all of that, and then all of this...all this stuff, here. Snape and learning about his parents, Voldemort...what was expected of him. He had to find a way to push away all his pain, and focus, concentrate. Do you understand?"

Ginny nods, although I know she doesn't really understand. Not really. How can any of this make sense? It's like hearing the most ugly stuff, the most awful stuff, and trying to make sense of it, and say, "ok." As if someone, anyone, even Harry - could ever have all that happen and be normal afterwards.

I nod, though, along with Ginny - mostly because I don't want Hermione to keep stuff from me, thinking that I won't deal with it, won't help Harry.

So I swallow down a rusty, slicing pain in my throat - because I think I know what is coming next. Dumbledore just observes, telling Hermione that she's doing a good job explaining everything when she starts to stammer a bit - when she looks like she's going to stop talking.

"Harry...he would _hurt _himself, Gin. With sharp things, any thing sharp really: glass, sometimes razor blades."

Ginny looks blood-let, nauseous.

"Why?"

Hermione seems lost in thought for a second, then starts again, a deliberate firmness in her voice. "Maybe to feel something. Maybe _not_ to feel anything. I'm not sure. I...was able to get him to talk about some of the things his family did to him, but he doesn't seem to want to talk very much about what he's doing to himself."

"Doing?," I insert, my mouth opening and closing all on its own. "I thought...he had stopped Mione."

Hermione wraps her arms around her midsection, as if cold.

"No. He hasn't. Stopped. Not with that. Not with...cutting. And not with other stuff. Professor Snape found him in the bathroom two days ago, before I got back to Hogwarts, with Professor Lupin. He had...cut into his arms very badly with his glasses. He broke them in the middle of the night. Snape found him in the bathtub," she finishes almost in a whisper.

Ginny is staring at the floor.

"He was in the tub?," and I know my sister is shocked. Is in shock. The words sound sullen, and low and lacking in comprehension.

"He had the shower on. Cold water," and I meet Hermione's eyes as she speaks, needing to know more, not wanting to, but needing to know more about my friend. "He was wearing all of his clothes, Ron," she affirms. "But he's not... The hospital hasn't helped him. In some ways he seems worse. He's very...dep-," she pauses, "he's not in a good place right now, guys. He probably can't come back just yet."

Ginny speaks again, her voice low, as if she doesn't want Dumbledore to hear.

"Why would he still do this? I mean, no one will make him go back. Not...not to them," and Ginny all but glares at Dumbledore, who doesn't seem to look all that concerned over her anger.

"I think," Hermione begins again, "it's his way of talking without talking. Explaining what happened, without using words. His...body, what he's doing to his body...that's how he's talking to us. That's how he's asking for help, Gin."

Hermione isn't really looking at either of us right now, and I suspect something more is about to be said, I know it is - because she turns to Dumbledore, her hazel eyes pleading with him, as if she doesn't want to continue.

"You've done very well, Miss Granger - thank you," and Hermione gives a weak smile, a faltering half-second smile, then stares at her shoes, almost motionless. Almost as if she's expecting to be slapped, or hit, or expecting to hear something awful. And I can't for the life of me understand what would...hurt her this much. It's obviously something she already knows - something more than every other ugly thing that has already been discussed.

"Ginny...Ron," Dumbledore speaks, uncharacteristically using our first names. "Harry...was attacked by his Uncle in the summertime. Very...severely."

And something squeezes in my chest, in my heart. Phantom hands, ghost hands - reaching in and squeezing.

"Like how...? Because, because Mione...you told us that his aunt bloody _burned_ him, and they hit him and locked him up, and flat out _tortured _him, and you...told us that, you-," and my voice breaks off - out of the blue, and to my complete horror I find myself combating tears. I find that I have to put my head in my hands, and bite down on my lips to keep from making any noise, and I haven't even heard what they want to say, what they are trying to say but don't want to mention.

And then warm hands are on my back, my neck, swirling lightly, patting, circling - a pattern only Hermione knows. A pattern to comfort. To let me know she's there.

She only stops when we hear the voice, small, certain, wrecked.

"He was...his uncle?," and my sister knows something, something awful, having put something together. I can see her shaking her head back and forth, unconsciously I'm sure, and Dumbledore looks older than ancient, older than I've ever seen him in that moment - the two of them sharing something, some knowledge with only their eyes.

When my sister looks up, and meets my eyes, I see the devastation, "_Ron_..."

She looks cast adrift.

Hermione pulls me into a light, barely-there hug, and I whisper to her, _tell me, tell me 'Mione, _not even caring about Dumbledore anymore._  
_

So she does, her usual sweet voice carrying such an brutal truth in three small words - _he. was. raped. _- that I suddenly can't breathe, can't move. Harry - _Harry _who is like a brother to me, my best mate, my best friend of all time. Hurt like that. Hurt like _that. _

And so much makes sense now... in how he has been, how he has acted. But then nothing makes sense all at the same time because my mind can only dredge up the incomprehensibles like razor blades found in green quill cases, and dried blood on bed sheets, spotted and regular to the point that Dean once asked if Harry was a girl, the git. Or... shirts covered in stains that looked like old cranberry juice...

Or Harry's ribcage protruding - and the dark purple blotches of bruises up his spine that made me turn my head, made me talk to Hermione in the first place. The pushing away of food. And the time - the one awful time - I heard him vomiting.

The same time I _saw_ him vomiting - me, quiet, shocked, staggeringly shocked - and him - unknowing, fostering the action, generating the sickness with his hands. Pressing, pressing, gagging. And his crying afterwards, the anger in his body as he moved about, not happy about something, not happy with the result. Weak sniffled tears echoing around the bathroom, his shaking, his anger.

A few minutes later I feel something soft and tissue-y press into my hand, and I realize my face is wet and everything seems too bright, which really makes no sense at all, if you think of it.

"I'm sorry, I-," but I stop, because Ginny also looks ruined, her eyes bright red.

"Where is he? Where is he - I want to see him," and Ginny is back - the Ginny I know. Assertive and braver than any other Gryffindor. Her anger is full force now, her protective sisterly care pruned into something workable, something determined and headstrong.

Hermione passes a look to Dumbledore, then mutters, voice sotto, "he's with your parents. He might...be staying with your mum and dad for awhile, Gin. He's too sick for school, right now. At least, he's too sick for the next little while. But we can visit him. We can visit him every week."

Ginny looks resolute.

"I want to visit him now."

"Gin-"

"I want to say I'm sorry, Hermione," she starts, obviously beating herself up more than I am, if such a thing is possible.

Hermione nods tightly, "we...are cleared from classes for the next few days, right Headmaster?"

Dumbledore's voice is softer than anything I've heard in my life. Soft, like water, like he doesn't dare say no to us. Not on this.

Not when it concerns Harry.

"Of course, Miss Granger."

* * *

We go back to our dorms to pack up some small bags, not really speaking to one another. Hermione mutters something about meeting in the great hall within the hour. Ginny still looks shell shocked.

I take to the stairs two at a time, something hot and acrid coursing through my belly, my veins, my brain. When I get to our room - Dean, Neville's, mine..._Harry's_...I quickly take in the space, survey his bed, open his closet... my eyes scanning over some muggle shirts, some wizarding cloaks, old Quidditch books we've given him throughout the years, and trinkets. Or maybe...maybe they weren't ineffective and stupid trinkets at all, really. He held on to them. Even the gag gifts. Even the Zonko's joke products. Maybe this was everything he had to hold onto, all he could grasp, to keep himself from losing himself even more.

A flash of gold, of burgundy and movement then. I bend down low and pull up a photo - a wizarding photo, coloured. And Harry, 11, in full Gryffindor Quiddich gear waves back at me, glasses completely round, eyes just as round - excited. Younger Harry smiles, gives a another little wave, a sporty little grin. He looks _happy. _And the fact that he could be happy, growing up with those monsters - it really should fill me with relief, but another part of me is unnerved with just how easily, and for so long, he was able to convince us that things were okay. Maybe not great, but not so...horrific.

He came from that world - that horrible reality - and he smiled, he laughed. And it should make me certain of his resilience, but I can't get over the fact that it's not exactly normal to be so...removed from pain, from suffering. Because how do you go on like a normal little kid when all of that evil stuff has happened?

I hold onto the photo, I hold onto it and bring it closer to my face, before doing something impulsive and silly. The words want to come right now - and so something not unlike a muggle prayer rapidly spills from my lips, from my heart.

"You can't let them kill you, Harry. You're stronger than them. You're stronger than us. I know you are-"

A slight, disheveled 11 year old smiles back at me, waves back at me - his eyes bright and full with glee.

"You're stronger than _anyone_, Harry," and I'm speaking to a photo, to a silly old photo, not to Harry - but somehow it seems right. Appropriate.

I put the photo in my bag, making a mental note to give it to him when I see him. He needs to be reminded of his strength.


End file.
